


Flower

by BlackDog9314



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Porn, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Castiel, Bottom Dean, Closeted Dean, Dark fic, Dubious consent if you squint, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Lovers, Everyone Is Alive, F/M, Frottage, Hand Jobs, I'm Going to Hell, I'm Sorry Dean, Jock Dean, M/M, Mean Castiel, Multi, Politically Incorrect Language, Porn With Plot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Punk Castiel, Rimming, Rough Sex, Top Castiel, Top Dean, but not really, kind of, loss of a loved one, sex to love, somehow I've started writing another angst dump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-14 04:22:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 92,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4550283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackDog9314/pseuds/BlackDog9314
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Every time I see your face,<br/>I think of things unpure, unchaste.<br/>I want to fuck you like a dog,<br/>I'll take you home and make you like it."</p><p>Cas Krushnic is the new kid in school from California with a bad fucking attitude and more than just physical scars.<br/>Dean Winchester is the green-eyed quarterback who sits in front of him in precalculus every other day.<br/>Cas knows what he wants, and has no qualms about taking it.<br/>Dean has no idea what's gotten into him lately.</p><p>A work of fiction in which few things are as they seem, a story of life after loss, and a love letter to the long and sometimes painful journey to self-acceptance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic started out as an idea for a smutty one-shot without much substance (ie: none) centered around the Liz Phair song quoted above, to which there's a link [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U_eLq9ibnsY).  
> Things developed, and this story ended up being somewhat dark. Heed the tags and please do not read if slight non-con elements and rough sex trigger or offend you. Cas is definitely supposed to be written as an intense fucker who doesn't respect boundaries (Dean's or anyone elses) and has a metric fuck-ton of issues and a horrible past.  
> Another warning is that this fic does feature Dean being with others in a strictly sexual capacity, and though the scenes are somewhat explicit it's also pretty clear that Dean doesn't want to be with these people so much as he feels obligated to be.  
> Additionally, both Dean and Castiel are 17 at the beginning of this story. The reason it isn't tagged 'underage' is because in Texas, where this fic is set, 17 is the age of consent, not 18. I've gotten a few questions about that and figured I would address it here.
> 
> PS- As apparently I need to reassure my incoming readers of this, THIS STORY HAS A HAPPY ENDING, I promise =)
> 
> PPS- Thing I am told most often: "I thought this was going to be a PWP and then it was a lot of feelings and super intense."
> 
> Happy Reading!

Cas doesn't remember how many shots he took in the airport bathroom before boarding the plane from California to Texas. He doesn't remember how long it took for him to start counting backwards in his head when he had his back tattooed over a year ago. He doesn't remember his new address, walking distance from the shithole he's now enrolled in for his senior year. Hell, he doesn't even entirely remember the first name of the aunt who's taken him in 'out of the goodness of her heart'. But he does remember the first time he saw Dean Winchester.

They have pre-calculus together. The woman who teaches the class is a Grade-A cunt if there ever was one. She hasn't done much besides hand out the answer keys for the homework every period under the guise of having them 'check their work' and text under her desk when she thinks no one is looking. Some things don't seem to change much from school to school, and it appears that underfunded public schools in Houston, Texas aren't much different from their counterparts in Oakland, California. But Winchester makes things interesting in this otherwise laughable excuse for a math class. Cas has been watching the star football player since he began attending his new high school the previous week.

The first time Cas had walked into the classroom and situated himself behind the green-eyed boy with the letterman jacket, he'd turned around and said rudely, “Move. Jo sits there.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Cas had answered nonchalantly, picking at the dirt under his nails with his penknife. The silver blade had reflected brightly the cold, fluorescent light of the room. Jacket-boy had caught sight of it and said nothing else. He'd quieted and turned around, obviously still seething.

 _That's what I thought_ , Cas had mused internally, a smile working its way across his face.

Sure enough, not long after that a willowy blonde had walked in, giving the boy in front of Cas a brief hug and rolling her eyes when she had to sit across from her friend rather than behind him. It's safe to say that Cas doesn't give a shit about that now, and didn't then, either.

Since then, Cas has taken the same seat every other day when they have the class. He's learned a few things:

      1. Douchebag's name is Dean Winchester.

      2. Dean Winchester is a senior and the quarterback of the football team.

      3. Dean Winchester has a reputation for being one of the best lays in the school and has apparently fucked almost the entirety of the cheerleading squad more than once.




Cas has been watching Winchester since their first encounter and wondering quietly to himself why the guy doesn't just move seats if he wants to sit in front of Jo whatever-the-hell-white-trash-midget's-last-name-is. Because he hasn't. Dean just sits in front of him every other day like a goddamn martyr, and smells like a wet dream doing it (sandalwood and Irish Spring soap and some musky undertone that makes Cas want to rip Dean's shirt collar down the back and bite his neck until he bleeds).

Cas wants to fuck Dean.

He's known this since the end of that first class; Winchester had turned around and glowered at him before getting up and leaving with Jo, all fiery eyes and angry, pursed lips that Cas bets would look good wrapped around a cock (ideally, his). Cas's got million-fucking-dollar gaydar, and everything about Winchester positively _screams_ closeted, from the way he indiscriminately hits on any girl who passes him, parks his monster of a Chevy in the same spot every day and glares at anyone who tries to take it from him, to how, when he thinks no one is looking (and little does Dean know Cas is _always_ looking), he casts lingering looks at his football buddies as they walk away in their form-fitting jeans and matching jackets.

Yeah.

Winchester doesn't convince Cas one iota that he wouldn't love a dick in the ass and a hand over his mouth. The thought is one he fantasizes about in great detail most nights while he jerks-off in the shitty bed he sleeps in now, a hand over his own mouth to keep whatshername from hearing in the next room over.

Fuck his life.

*

Dean's been trying not to think about the new guy (Cas, he's pretty sure his name is) sitting behind him for almost three weeks when they have their second interaction.

It doesn't go much better than their first.

“Could you two shut the _fuck up_ already?” the deep voice asks from behind Dean while he's laughing at something Jo's just told him. Class is less than five minutes from over and Dean's been listening to his Jo rehash a humorous drunken encounter had with her mother for the latter part of it.

Dean turns around at the words, startled, and if he does so somewhat warily pretends that he _isn't_ thinking of the last time he talked to the guy, when he was casually toying with a blood and dirt-stained pocketknife like it was no big deal.

“What's your problem?” he snaps at Cas, who looks terrible, he quickly notices as he stares at him. His blue eyes are red-rimmed, his dark hair almost comically messy, and he's pale.

“I'm goddamn hungover and you shitheads are making it worse,” Cas says with sleepy annoyance, raising a hand bedecked with a leather fingerless glove and flicking Dean off.

“Too bad,” Dean says with another laugh, sounding braver than he feels and hating it. He's not used to being intimidated by anyone but his father, and the fact that this fucker can do it with a few words is troubling.

“So help me god, if you don't cut that shit out, I will hurt you,” Cas says, completely serious as he levels a bleary-eyed stare at them. Beside him, Jo grabs at Dean's arm, trying to make him turn back around.

“Shut up, you ain't shit,” she snaps in Dean's defense, though Dean isn't at all sure her words are true.

“Bitch, why don't _you_ shut up?” Cas shoots back in response, annoyance clear on his narrow features. Jo exhales sharply at the crass words, and Dean speaks without thinking.

“Don't fucking talk to her like that, asshole.”

“Unless you're going to make me, I think I'll keep on keepin' on,” Cas says calmly, tucking a piece of dark hair behind an ear with a torn lobe and smiling coolly with teeth that are white and even.

Before more can be said between the three of them, the bell to signal the end of class sounds and Cas stands up slowly, staring at Dean so intensely that for a moment all he can do is freeze where he's still sitting at his desk; he feels as if he's somehow trapped in the cold, ice-blue gaze.

Dean's reminded vividly then of the last deer he took down with his father a few years before, how still it had stood as the bullet from Dean's rifle whistled towards it.

But Jo pulls Dean from the classroom before he can stand there any longer, uprooting him from the scuffed linoleum floor and out into the hall, where she asks him, “What the fuck was that asshole's problem?"

Dean has no answer, and ignores Jo's chastising protests as Ruby Dane walks by and he makes a beeline for her. He saunters over and slides an arm around her shoulders. Dean smiles the way he knows makes people want him and asks casually what the brunette is doing after school that day.

He tries not to think of the blue eyes he can still feel eating through him from across the hall.

 

Hours later, when Dean is bending down and sealing his lips over one of Ruby's breasts where she's laid out on a blanket in the football field, he realizes he hasn't been able to stop thinking about the way Cas looked at him earlier.

No one has ever looked at him that way.

When Dean's sinking into the wetness between Ruby's thighs fifteen minutes after that realization, he's not thinking of her tits or her plump ass or her wide, brown eyes. No, Dean's imagining the only guy he's ever screwed (at a party weeks before). He's thinking of how hot and sticky the summer air had felt where they stood pressed close against one another in the dark (like a pair of dogs, he'd thought later).

He's thinking of how similar the guy's hairstyle and color is to that of the blue-eyed prick who sits behind Dean in precal—

Dean pulls out and comes into the condom covering his dick, wincing at the slimy feeling of it against his skin and lying down next to Ruby to clean himself up. He'll have to get back home soon, it's almost midnight and his curfew is at one; his mother will be calling soon to ask where he is and if he needs a ride or any help, as she always does.

Ruby's smiling and laughing breathlessly beside Dean on the blanket, none the wiser to his wandering thoughts, and he wants to throw up even as he's planning how to get her to do this with him again sometime.

*

Cas is breathing heavily when he wakes up from the dream he's had hundreds of times, Isaac's name on his lips as it always is the first few seconds after.

“Fuck,” he breathes into the darkened room around him. He can see nothing, and makes no move to sit up or get out of his bed the way he's itching to. He knows it won't make a difference, it never has in the past and he's willing to bet a new city isn't going to improve things.

He simply lies there, staring at the slowly-emerging ceiling above him and wishing Isaac wasn't dead and buried a few states away.

Christ, but he hates it here.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Dean has sex with three different girls in the following week alone, and by the way Gordon and Michael are staring at him when he comes in to practice the following Monday, he can tell they're about to make something of it.

“I don't know how you do it, man, on the field _and_ off,” Michael says meaningfully, holding a hand up so Dean can high-five him. Beside him, Gordon is nodding approvingly.

“I guess my reputation precedes me,” Dean replies with a smirk, thinking somewhat guiltily of how he'd left so soon after he and Hester finished the night before. She'd been sweet, wanted to make him dinner if he'd have only stayed a few minutes longer, but he hadn't. He never does, and considering this is his third go-round with her in the last two years he's surprised she still tries at all.

“Hester, man,” Gordon whistles, making the shape of an hour-glass in the air with his hands.

“She's hot,” Dean says noncommittally.

“Think I have a shot?” Michael asks jokingly before Dean socks him lightly on the arm.

“Kidding, kidding. I'm goin' out with Jo tonight,” Michael says brightly, his tune abruptly changing as he mentions his long-time crush.

“Better be somewhere classy,” Dean says warningly, secretly happy that Michael and Jo are dating at last. They've both liked each other since grade seven, Dean just happened to give them the final nudge a week or so ago.

Michael's light eyes are far-away for a moment as he thinks of Dean's best friend, and Dean feels a twinge of jealousy. He's not envious of his teammate dating Jo (she's like a sister to him, always has been), but of the security Michael has in knowing someone likes him enough to go on a date with him, that someone wants to be with him and give him their time indiscriminately.

Dean knows plenty of girls in school like him enough to have casual sex with him, he has ample proof of that. But he also knows that their affection is temporary and extends no farther where he's concerned because of the hole he's dug himself into. Dean wasn't kidding when he said his reputation preceded him.

Not that the girls he sleeps with are even who he wants, anyway.

Dean suddenly wants nothing more than to get morning practice over with so he can sleep through his English comp class.

“C'mon, let's get started.”

*

Cas's aunt doesn't try to talk to him before he leaves to take his short walk to school in the mornings that have stretched by since he snapped at Dean and Jo in class, and he appreciates it. The older woman just passes him a sandwich in a plastic bag and turns back to face the kitchen table she is forever sitting at, pieces of paper with typed words stacked on its worn surface.

It's felt as if Winchester is everywhere lately: in the hall after school when Cas exits the bathroom, out by his sleek, black car as he walks by to take the main road home by foot, sitting with white-trash beautiful at the table next to the empty one Cas purposefully occupies at lunch.

Cas knows he's gotten beneath Dean's skin a little when he catches the quarterback looking at him as he makes his way home, or angling himself a little farther to the side than necessary when talking to Jo in class so that Cas is in his peripheral vision, or unintentionally catching his eye over some cheerleader's shoulder as she leans in to hug him by his locker.

That satisfies Cas, for now.

He's heard around school lately how much tail Winchester's been getting, his stats only improved by how well he played at last week's game, and judging by how pretty girls flounce away blushing after talking to him in the halls, Cas can only guess he's in the running to get more.

Cas has never had that issue, and at times wonders if he'd have been better off if he pretended to like girls the way Winchester does.

He especially wonders this some mornings before school, when he combs his hair so that it covers the thick, curving scars on the right side of his head, left by the staples that held him together once upon a time.

Cas has never pretended to be anyone but who he is: a fag who unapologetically likes dick and hard lines of muscle, stubbled jawlines under his tongue and broad shoulders marred with the evidence of his nails and his teeth.

Cas doesn't know how his life would have turned out if he'd worn the ill-fitting mask of heteronormativity. He only knows for certain that he'd have less scars, physical or otherwise, if he'd lived a lie, and that the cost is one he's already paid many times over.

 

He and Winchester have their first real conversation in precal on a dreary Tuesday, almost two weeks after Cas insulted Jo, who happens to be absent.

“Where's little miss thing?” Cas leans forward and whispers to Dean with a smile, knowing the other boy can feel his breath on the shell of his ear.

Dean starts and turns around, green eyes wide for a moment before his doe-eyed look is replaced by one of feigned indifference.

“What's it to you?” Dean shoots back too quickly.

“Oh, I was just thinking that I like you infinitely better this way. Quiet, and all that,” Cas says with a smirk.

Winchester turns around more completely in his seat, looking at Cas curiously.

“Where the fuck did you even come from?” he mumbles.

“Oakland, California, home of the Raiders,” Cas enunciates, reaching a hand up to scratch at the scar on his earlobe.

Dean snorts at the mention of the infamously bad team and Cas rolls his eyes, knowing what he wants to say and silently daring him to. Dean looks as if he's about to take him up on it when his expression changes abruptly and his eyes follow Cas's raised hand.

Cas moves his hand to look at what's caught Dean's eye and remembers that he only has one of his fingerless gloves on at the moment. He couldn't find its brother in the rat's nest he now calls a room, full of half-unpacked clothes and belongings as it still is.

“Are both your hands tattooed like that?” Dean asks, referring to the 'F U C K' tattooed on the knuckles of Cas's right hand, each finger bearing one of the letters.

“What's it to you?” Cas asks, mocking him.

“Nothing,” Dean says, but his eyes don't move from Cas's hand.

Cas sighs and places both of his hands flat on the desk after pulling the glove from his left hand and exposing his other set of knuckle tattoos, which read 'O F F' in the same blocky script. Cas's pinky finger is adorned with the symbol for the gay male orientation: two interlocking circles with arrows protruding from their edges. Cas watches as Dean takes in the symbol, comprehension growing on his attractive features.

“You're gay?” Dean asks, staring at both of Cas's splayed hands for a moment.

Cas nods and pulls his hands away, replacing his single glove and smirking.

“It's not like I'm the only one at this school,” Cas says pointedly, raising his eyebrows at Dean.

“What?” Dean sputters, flushing a deep red.

“Let me guess, daddy beat you when he found your prayer diary?” Cas asks matter-of-factly, knowing he's taking a risk and feeling a small rush of adrenaline as the words hang between them in the air.

For a moment he has no idea what Dean is going to say; he looks torn between dismay and fear for a short moment before he looks only angry.

“Fuckin' faggot,” Dean says with his voice full of venom before he turns to face toward the front of the room again.

Cas acts immediately, pulling his pocketknife from his jeans and flipping out its blade, pressing the point of it to the back of Dean's neck. He says quietly, “If you ever call me that again, I'll make you wish you'd licked my boots the first day you met me. _You_ don't get to call _me_ that when it's closeted pricks like you who've broken my arms and trashed my house, shithead. You don't know me, so I suggest you don't call names.”

Dean has frozen in his chair, his hands trembling slightly where they're resting on top of his desk. Cas knows he can feel the knife slowly breaking the skin stretched over his spinal cord, a millimeter at a time, and doesn't ease off in the slightest.

“Do you understand?” Cas asks, his knife still drawn while at the front of the room the teacher texts beneath her disorganized desk, a smile crossing her face at whatever she's just read on her phone screen.

“Yes,” Dean whispers.

When Cas withdraws his knife there's a single bead of blood on the tanned skin there.

“Good,” Cas says, pocketing his knife calmly as if nothing has happened. “Was there anything else you wanted to say to me?”

“Nothing,” Dean breathes, and true to his word, not another thing is said between them for the remainder of class.

*

For the rest of the week Dean has dreams about Cas, ones where he uses his knife to force him into the empty precal classroom, bracketing him in with arms on either side of his shoulders in the corner before leaning forward and biting him, his neck, his nipples, his jaw. Cas's hands are everywhere and his blue eyes are so bright they're all Dean can see. The dreams usually end with Cas turning him around and pressing him against the wall so tightly he can barely breathe and shoving his legs apart, spitting on his hand and stroking Dean's opening with a few short, rough touches before thrusting all the way inside of him without warning. The feeling is both the best and worst thing he's ever felt in his life as he's fucked like that in the empty room with Cas's knife on that spot on the back of his neck. Sweat runs down Dean's back and makes slick the cleft Cas is mercilessly sliding in and out of. He's terrified and on the verge of coming at the same time as he's filled over and over, feels the hot bluntness of Cas's cock pulsing deep in his belly as he empties himself into Dean like he's merely a receptacle, like the guy Dean fucked at the party a month ago.

Dean wakes up from these dreams hard and on the verge of tears, and makes himself come with a cry he muffles into his pillow. The wet evidence of his arousal on the sheets makes him feel dirty and ashamed.

He doesn't know how to make the dreams stop, or how Cas, someone he's known for only a month, knows about the one thing he's worked his whole life to keep secret.

*

After a few silent classes spent ignoring the Californian sitting behind him and the shittiest game he's played since freshman year, Dean calls Michael after school. He spins off a bullshit story about how the new kid with the dark, messy hair is threatening him, saying obscene things to him and throwing him off his game. Dean asks if he and Gordon can rough Cas up a bit, get him off his back. 

“He walks home every day down Fourth Street,” Dean tells Michael, pretending he hasn't been watching Cas and knows only incidentally.

“Sure. Faggot shouldn't be too hard to teach a lesson,” Michael says before hanging up. The word makes Dean's stomach twist, but he says nothing to Michael of it.

That night, after he snaps at his little brother Sammy when he asks if John has called home recently, Dean realizes that what he's feeling is guilt.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave me a comment and tell me how you like it!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If slight non-con elements are a no-go for you, do yourself a favor and don't read!  
> I tried to make clear that what happens here is a very informal kind of consensual nonconsent. If that sort of thing isn't an element you're comfortable with, you can message me on Tumblr and I will tell you what you missed.

The weekend is a dull one for Cas; the most interesting thing he does is go to the football game alone on Friday, wanting to watch Winchester in action and feeling a sort of sympathetic amusement when the quarterback flubs, badly, more than once on the field. From the way everyone wails in disappointment around Cas he can tell this is unusual. When Dean takes his helmet off at halftime his face is pale beneath the bright lights of the stadium, and he's visibly upset. Cas drums his fingers on his knees as he watches the object of his desire from where he sits, high above the green field below, ensconced in the uppermost section of the bleachers.

It's getting cold out, and Cas wraps his arms around himself and thinks of the last time he looked at Winchester closely a few days before, how bright his green eyes had been with ire and fright in equal measure. Cas wants to pin him down and press broken kisses to his fair skin at the thought of how his lips had parted, and he's half-hard in the bleachers watching Winchester play, even as terrible as he is that night.

Cas spends Saturday and Sunday sleeping, waking up more than once soaked with sweat and wanting nothing more than to forget everything about his last year in California.

But he knows forgetfulness won't come, and instead imagines his thoughts shaping themselves into an arrow that doesn't dwell on what he's lost, that flies forward instead, tearing through time and space. He imagines a single, cold point that hurtles toward Dean with more momentum than anyone can handle, let alone the closeted boy Cas has set his sights on.

*

Monday is a day that is mostly unremarkable for Dean, save for one particular event.

Though he doesn't have precal that day (and thank fucking God for that), Dean runs into Cas while standing beside his locker. He's in the process of packing his things up for the day when it happens.

Cas startles Dean, badly, when he turns around only to find him there, His dark hair is disheveled and his eyes are narrowed as he leans against the lockers with an otherwise unreadable expression on his face. Dean drops the notebook and pencil he's holding without thinking, for one wild second assuming Cas somehow _knows_ about the talk he's had with Michael and Gordon and is there to confront him about it.

But to his surprise and confusion, Cas doesn't say anything.

“What are you doing here?” Dean asks Cas with what he hopes sounds like unruffled annoyance, taking a step back and crossing his arms over his chest. From the way the other boy looks at him, one corner of his plush lips quirking as if he's only somewhat successfully reigning in a smile, Dean knows he isn't being especially convincing.

Cas doesn't answer immediately, and instead bends to pick up Dean's composition notebook and mechanical pencil. He straightens back up and holds the two items out to him with the tattooed hands Dean has made himself sick over since the day he saw the entirety of them. Cas's skin is smooth save for stubble and a few scars here and there, scattered over his high cheekbones and strong jaw. Dean knows he's been caught staring when the half-smile playing on the lips only a foot from his widens and blooms into one impossible to mistake for anything else.

“I was just walking past,” Cas says, moving closer to Dean as he takes back his proffered belongings. The tips of their fingers brush.

“I saw you play on Friday.”

Dean feels embarrassment flood him at the thought of Cas seeing him play so badly. He tries to look away even though doing so is almost impossible considering Cas is now standing mere inches away from him. He smells of soap, cigarette smoke, and cheap spearmint gum.

Dean doesn't move away as the seconds slide by and they stand that way ( _one, two, three, four_ ), even though anyone could walk by and see them standing so close to one another. Dean isn't thinking of other people seeing them and what could happen if they do, he's thinking of the dreams he's been having for weeks that have only gotten worse. He's thinking of how Cas fucks him against the wall of their precal classroom in them, how he murmurs to Dean as he pulls his short hair, hard, how he rakes his nails down Dean's back and tells him how good he feels. He's thinking of how Cas orgasms just within Dean's sore, throbbing entrance, how he slips his fingers in after to hold his come inside of Dean's body.

Dean realizes he's hard in his jeans as he drinks in Cas's defined features and the bruising self-reliance in his distant blue eyes. He backs away in revulsion, not at the other boy, but at himself.

Dean turns to face his locker again, making clear that the conversation is over, and when he turns back around Cas is gone, and Dean regrets even more what he's asked his friends to do.

 

*

Tuesday afternoon, while Cas sits behind Dean in precal as per the usual, the quarterback looks as if he's about to break up their recent routine of awkward silence (made even worse after the encounter in the hallway the previous day) and tell him something. Dean's full lips open and close a few times as he turns around and faces Cas in his seat, but he says nothing, and in the end gracelessly swivels back around and asks Jo about a date she apparently went on the week previous. Though the long-haired blonde gives her friend a quizzical look at the almost-interaction, she doesn't comment on it and instead answers his inquiry. Cas spends the next few minutes listening to Jo wimble on about a buddy of Dean's that she's seeing before he puts in a pair of ear buds that connect to nothing and lays his head down on the desk, uninterested in hearing any more than he already has.

But Cas wonders about what Dean was going to say until the school day has ended and he's getting ready to make his way back to his aunt's house.

His questions are answered out back of the school under the early-October evening light.

Two boys Cas recognizes from the football team, Michael and Gordon, he thinks they're called, accost him as soon as he exits the chipped double-doors. They incline their heads towards him mockingly, and Cas knows they expect him to be afraid. He isn't, and decides to ignore them and keep walking. But Michael grabs his elbow in a painfully snug hold and forces him to face them, derailing that plan.

“Goin' home?” he asks Cas menacingly.

“I was planning on it,” Cas answers indifferently, wrenching his arm from Michael's grip.

“We have something to talk to you about,” Gordon says firmly.

Cas should probably turn and run because the last thing he needs in his life at the moment is to get into another fight, but he's ready. Anger and bristling, coiled energy are already gathering beneath his skin. He fears nothing that either of these two could do to him, and as always has his knife in his pocket should things get out of hand.

So he shrugs and sets off with the two of them, one flanking either side of him.

They act as if they're simply walking him home as they lead Cas off of school property and down a back alley he's never noticed before nearby. Both of their faces are set in irritated sneers, as if Cas is something they stepped in on the field.

“So, what the fuck do you want?” Cas asks evenly once they've apparently decided they're far enough away and have stopped near a junkyard facing a deeply-rutted dirt road. He knows what they're going to say before they answer him, and isn't disappointed.

“Your bitch ass needs to stop messing with our boy, Winchester,” Michael says as he advances on him, Gordon close behind.

“Don't know what you mean,” Cas responds as he begins mentally sizing the two of them up and figuring what the better approach would be, defensive or offensive. It isn't the first time he's been ganged-up on in a fight, and he knows how to take more than a few punches.

“I think you do,” Gordon says lowly as he steps forward, his fists already coming up.

“Thing is, though, I really don't,” Cas says with a smile, knowing he's goading them and not caring.

“This should teach you to leave our team alone,” Michael says as he throws a punch at Cas right as he drops his book bag to the ground and dodges. He steps as far to the side as he can, grounding himself as stably as he's able.

“By team, do you mean straight men in general or—” Cas starts to say jokingly before he has to side-step another punch, this one from Gordon, only to be kicked at the same time by Michael from the left. His shin takes almost the full brunt of the blow and he winces a little, launching a hit of his own and catching Michael on the jaw. Gordon takes a swing at him where he's unprotected and socks him in the stomach. Cas's breath is knocked out of him, but he continues to move, elbowing Gordon in the face at the same time he manages to kick Michael back. He catches him in the knee and hears him shout in response.

They go on like this for a few minutes, and Michael and Gordon begin to pull dirty moves, aiming for Cas's crotch and face more than his upper body. But they're evenly matched, to the surprise of the two people trying to gain the upper hand over the Californian.

Cas fights back tirelessly, and what he lacks in obvious muscle he makes up for with speed, strategy, and anger. The red of it drips through him as he moves, he the sieve and his fists the drain.

Even two against one, both Michael and Gordon have bloody noses and are breathing heavily while Cas is in a similar state. After a few additional hits parried and blows dealt, Cas can tell that the football players are starting to realize that unless they have a third person to help them they'll likely just continue on in this way.

That thing happens not long after Cas has this thought.

“Fucking faggot,” Michael grumbles as his fist smashes into Cas's jaw, his dirty blonde hair falling into one of his blue-green eyes as behind him the waning sun makes the sweat on his face and neck shine. The details are so vivid Cas can almost taste them, mixed with the metallic flavor of the blood on his tongue from his streaming nose. He's suddenly somewhere else at the words.

While in the cool enclosure of a classroom the words merely annoyed him, the same phrase said while accompanied by a blow to the face hurtles Cas back over a year in his mind. The pain in his jaw explodes through him as he surges forward with a new-found burst of rage. He lets it wash over him in a tide of hot, fresh scarlet that drowns out the ebb of the old from his veins. He hears nothing save for the beat of his own heart and the sound of his fists making contact with Michael as he hits him. Cas throws Gordon off of him when he tries to pull him off of his teammate.

“Fuck you!” Cas yells as he hits Michael.

“Fuck you!” Cas yells as the person he's beating stops being Michael and becomes a nameless adolescent with a phoenix tattoo on his neck.

“Fuck you, fuck you, you fucked everything up!” Cas yells as he starts to feel Gordon kicking him in the backs of his legs.

He remembers where he is in a sickening lurch that makes his fists tremble where they're raised to deliver another blow.

He looks at Michael (and he _is_ Michael again, and Cas is in Texas, fuck) where's he's crouched below him on the ground, his lip split and bleeding freely, his cheekbones swollen, and one eye badly blackened.

Both Michael and Gordon are staring at Cas silently, shock and fear on their matching open-mouthed expressions.

Cas backs away, breathing raggedly and still shaking, “Stay the _fuck_ away from me.”

The blood on his hands is making him sick, and he can feel his face swelling as he picks his bag up from where he threw it aside less than ten minutes before, wincing as his head begins to pound.

The football players make no move to stop Cas as he begins he walks away.

He keeps one hand on the knife inside his pocket, anyway.

*

 _“The guy's crazy, Dean. He beat the shit outta Mikey,”_ Gordon is saying, and from somewhere not far behind him Dean can hear Michael say indignantly, “He didn't get me _that_ bad!”

“What?” Dean asks, feeling the blood drain from his face. Gordon and Michael are two of the brawniest players on the team; the idea that one person could hold their own against them is a disconcerting one. He at the same time tries to ignore the relief he's experiencing at the knowledge that Cas wasn't as badly hurt as his friends, and is conflicted over the feeling.

 _“Yeah. Sorry, man, but you're on your own with that fucker. We got a few more games to play and I ain't about to get my ass beat a second time,”_ Gordon says with a trailing sigh that sounds vaguely like wounded pride seeping from a once-inflated ego.

“Shit,” Dean moans as he sits back in his desk chair. He's in his room with the door locked, and from where Sam is cooped-up in his own room next door he can hear the muffled sound of the Doctor Who theme-song playing.

 _“Anyway, see you tomorrow, D,”_ Gordon says before hanging up.

_Fuck._

Dean doesn't have precal tomorrow, thank god, but he does on Thursday.

He has no idea what Cas will do when they see each other again.

*

Cas cleans himself up when he gets home, appreciative of the evening shifts his aunt works at the nearby Dollar Tree when she's not there to ask him about the state of his face.

The bathroom sink is full of pink water and blood-stained wads of toilet paper when he's finally scrubbed all of the dried evidence of the altercation from his skin, and only a split lip, swollen nose, and minor black eye remain as he looks at himself in the mirror. His hair is damp on the side of his face where he rinsed the sweat and flecks of blood from its dark strands.

He stands in front of the mirror for a long time, losing sight of who and where he is as he stares at his own features. He thinks of how he hit Michael over and over, how for a moment he wasn't in Texas, but back in California during the five red and blue minutes he knows he's never truly escaped from.

He makes himself snap out of that train of thought, turning and pulling on a clean t-shirt and going back to his room after making a trip to the kitchen liquor-cabinet and pilfering some of his new guardian's rum. He figures a drink'll take the edge off the physical pain he's in at the moment and quiet the niggling thoughts he can't quite stifle on his own.

Cas closes his door behind him, sitting on his bed and opening the bottle. He doesn't bother turning the lights on before tipping the bottle back. He takes a few swigs and chases them with a few more only seconds later.

*

Wednesday goes by without incident for Dean. He doesn't see Cas anywhere, and is pretty sure he's not in school by the time the end of the day rolls around and he hasn't caught sight of him at all.

He feels a growing apprehension at Cas's absence, and that night finds that his obscene dreams have only intensified; when Dean wakes in the middle of the night he discovers that he's already come, his first wet-dream since early middle school. The insides of his thighs and his belly are wet with his own release, and he's too afraid to go back to sleep, knowing that the dream will come again and hating it as much as he wants to experience it one more time.

Dean goes to precal the following afternoon half-asleep and jittery, knowing without looking at himself that his eyes are beset with deep purple hollows. He sits two seats ahead of where he usually would to put some distance between himself and Cas. He knows he's embarrassing himself and finds he's too tired to truly care.

When Jo sees that Dean's moved she looks confused. He knows that neither Michael nor Gordon have said anything to her about their altercation with Cas (according to them the whole thing is too 'stupid' to bother talking about), and that when Jo asked her new boyfriend why he looked like he'd gotten hit in the face with a baseball bat, he told her he had a particularly rough practice. If she didn't believe Michael, she hasn't pressed the issue.

“Why are you up here?” Jo asks as she sits behind Dean, extending a hand to rest it on his shoulder. Dean flinches at the touch, and says only, “Don't want to be closer to that fuck than I have to be.”

Jo knows who Dean's referring to, though Cas hasn't come to class yet.

“I thought you hadn't talked to him since that one time?” she says, referring to when Cas insulted her.

Dean shrugs and says nothing else as their bed-headed classmate chooses that moment to come to class, his insouciant expression not at all in line with the bruises on his face.

Dean looks at his hands where they're folded in his lap as soon as he comes close to making eye contact with the person who's been fucking him in his dreams. He feels his face heat with shame as Cas passes him by.

“What happened to him?” Jo gasps quietly as Cas takes his usual seat, three back from them. She's openly staring at the guy, and Dean pinches her in the arm to make her stop.

“Ow! Fuck you,” she hisses before smacking him on the shoulder in response. “Did you see his face?”

“I did, Jo,” Dean says tiredly.

“He looks like shit,” Jo says authoritatively before quieting and getting her homework out as the teacher begins to come around with the answer keys.

*

Cas smirks when he sees that Winchester's moved a few seats up to put some space between them, and makes a point of not acknowledging him in the slightest as he walks past he and Jo.

Cas watches Dean closely as class begins and eases slowly by. He's too focused on the other boy to write or do any homework as they sit a few yards away from each other, both of them still and breathing as if the very air that surrounds them is liable to detonate at an exhale too forceful.

When Dean leaves about partway through class to go to the bathroom, Cas follows a few minutes later. He ignores Jo's suspicious look as he passes her.

*

Dean splashes cold water on his face in the empty restroom down the hall from the precal classroom. He feels as if he can breathe again now that Cas isn't in the same encapsulated space as he is.

When he hears the door open, close and lock behind him he straightens up rapidly and opens his eyes, lashes still wet from the water he just doused his face with. He uses the mirror in front of him to glance around the room.

He freezes when he sees Cas behind him, pale and bruised under the blue-white fluorescents. Dean turns around quickly, feeling his heart begin to race beneath his ribs as his palms start to sweat in tandem with its quickening beats.

Dean is certain Cas is about to hurt him, and says immediately, “I don't know what you're thinking, but I didn't—”

“Sic your fucking teammates on me?” Cas says, his tone eerily calm and his eyes icy as he steps closer once, twice.

“I just—”

“You what?” Cas cuts him off a second time, closing the distance between them and shoving Dean back against the sink. Its edge digs into the backs of his thighs and his head cracks against the mirror as Cas presses his wrist tightly over Dean's windpipe.

“I just wanted...” Dean begins, but realizes partway through that he doesn't want to say the truth: that he'd wanted Michael and Gordon to make Cas hurt for the throwaway insult in class that cut too close to the bone. He'd wanted Cas to pay for seeing through him.

Dean is blushing angrily and looks away, trying to rest his eyes anywhere but on the pair of blue ones directly in front of his.

“You thought they'd hurt me and I'd leave you alone?” Cas breathes dangerously as he exerts still more pressure on Dean's larynx. The red line slitting the side of Cas' lip is vivid on the slightly chapped pink of his mouth, and his right cheekbone bears a healing cut that accents the dark bruise marring the left side of his jaw.

The other boy's body is pressed hard against Dean's, and his oxygen is slowly being cut off by the pale arm bisecting his throat.

All Dean can do is look at Cas's pierced bottom lip as he talks.

“You think I don't know why you're afraid of me?” Cas asks, his voice growing still quieter as he moves his free hand up to roughly grab a handful of Dean's hair the way he's dreamt so many times. Cas forces him to look into his eyes.

“I don't know what you think, but you're wrong,” Dean says hoarsely. He tilts his head upwards to better breathe beneath Cas's hand, breaking their eye contact purposefully.

“You're fucking lying,” Cas whispers, rolling his hips against Dean's so he can feel how hard they both are, how hot Cas's erection feels through the layers separating them. Dean closes his eyes and exhales heavily at the sensation.

He knows he could run, and even more, that he _should_ run, but makes no move to free himself from Cas's hold.

Cas feels so right against Dean, his hard lines, immovable muscle and almost burning warmth. He doesn't feel like a girl, not soft or sweet or pliant.

“Let me go,” Dean whispers brokenly, seeing stars as he opens his eyes again, his throat compressed so tightly he knows he'll start fading in and out soon.

Cas doesn't do as he asks, but leans in closely instead. He pulls Dean's face down so their eyes are locked again as he stares at him, gaging the truth of his words.

Apparently finding the veracity of his plea lacking, Cas surges forward and covers Dean's lips with his.

Dean gasps into Cas's mouth weakly as his bottom lip is bitten, so hard he thinks it may draw blood. He barely notices when Cas finally withdraws his wrist from where it was pressed to his throat and uses his newly-freed hand to reach around Dean and shove him up onto the sink. The stray drops of water on the porcelain soak into his jeans as Cas reaches down and touches Dean between his legs, where he's already so hard he aches.

“Don't,” Dean says, knowing he could make Cas stop if he simply _moved._ He hates how he moans into Cas's fingers when the other boy covers his mouth and starts undoing Dean's belt one-handed. Cas reaches inside Dean's pants and underwear to touch his hot flesh without barriers, the pads of his fingers callused and cool.

Cas draws back for a moment, licking a stripe up the palm of his hand before he starts to stroke Dean in the locked bathroom.

“You're a bad liar,” Cas murmurs, and Dean's thighs jerk as he comes into the hand wrapped around him after only a few pulls, shamefully aroused at how close he was to having his nightly fantasy happening in reality.

Afterwards, Dean feels lightheaded and uncertain, and when Cas unlocks the bathroom door and says, “Get back to class, and wait for me afterwards outside your locker.” Dean knows he'll do it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will now be updating this fic and Rhapsodic alternately =) please tell me how you like this so far!


	4. Chapter 4

Cas watches Dean carefully for the remainder of their precal class, and the quarterback doesn't disappoint. He sits hunched low at his desk as if he's sick, one of his legs bouncing in the aisle and his short, dirty-blonde hair still altogether disheveled from their encounter in the bathroom only fifteen minutes earlier.

Little Jo Hay suspects that something has happened, Cas can tell she does by the way she tries to talk to Dean more than once, only to have him ignore her. By the end of class she looks angry, and leaves Dean's side in a flouncing huff when the bell rings, her phone already out with its keypad clicking ferociously.

Dean turns back to look at Cas minutely after she's no longer in the classroom, his green eyes still wild and a little unfocused the way they were when he came into Cas's hand. Cas simply inclines his head toward the open door, reminding Winchester wordlessly what he's asked of him.

Obediently, Dean turns back around and stands up. The post-orgasm tremors in his legs are visible from where Cas is still lackadaisically sitting and watching him.

Cas doesn't follow Dean out immediately, savoring the chance to make him sweat after what Michael and Gordon pulled. When he finally decides it's time to join him the next class is already filing in.

It's not nearly the end of the school day yet, only third period, and Dean is obviously nervous where he stands before his locker as Cas approaches him. His feet are shifting to and fro, and his hands look as if they'd still if they only had something to hold on to.

“Miss me?” Cas asks.

“Listen, you can't tell _anyone_ what happened—” Dean begins in a whisper, looking up and down the hallway to make sure no one is watching them.

“ _We_ are going to get the fuck outta Dodge before next period starts,” Cas interrupts him evenly. He gets his utility knife out from his pocket and flips its blade out to wick away a hangnail he's just discovered.

“It's only...” Dean starts timidly as he looks sideways at Cas's knife.

“It's late enough. I'm bored, aren't you?”

Dean looks as if he wants to run away for a second, but Cas knows that he won't and waits patiently for him to choose what he'd bet money on has already been set in stone since he jacked him off over the bathroom sink.

At last, “...Where do you want to go?”

Cas smirks, “There anyone at your place?”

Dean shakes his head rapidly, “No, we aren't going to my house.”

“That's not what I asked, is it?”

“No...Sam's at school and Mom's at work,” Dean says, sounding defeated.

“I'm gonna take a wild guess and say your dad's on a _long_ business trip?” Cas asks derisively, noting the way the words make Dean's pretty lips purse in anger.

“Fuck you,” he mutters as he looks away.

“I figured that was the plan,” Cas says as he puts his knife away, taking a few steps toward Dean until they're less than a foot apart. Though the football player is taller than him by almost half a foot, Dean still swallows with an audible click and meets his eyes with a dutiful respect, as if Cas is intimidating to him.

Cas wants to reach for him as they stand there, seeing his handiwork on Dean's lower lip from where he bit him earlier. He wants to give him another somewhere else. Dean licks his lips unconsciously and looks as if he's undressing Cas with his eyes.

He knows then that the game is up for both of them, if it was ever even on in the first place.

“Come on,” Dean says tersely before turning and leading Cas down the hall and to the back exit of the school, past the gym and the library.

They walk casually together so a teacher won't notice them and ask where they're going. Though Cas pretends he doesn't notice, he sees Dean steal a few glances his way as they go. It briefly makes him wonder what he looks like in the quarterback's eyes and how this whole thing appears from his vantage point. But he shoves the thought away before he can fall down into the uncertainty it promises.

Once they're outside the school, the walk to Dean's car takes a few additional minutes as they have to circle back around to the front to get to it. Dean says nothing as they both climb inside his black behemoth of an Impala. Cas runs his hands over the leather of the seats beneath him and takes it all in as Dean starts his car and begins to drive them to wherever it is he lives. When Cas absently opens a little compartment in the side door and discovers two small, plastic army men occupying it, Dean looks at him and says quickly, “Don't touch those.”

Cas isn't convinced. “Why not?”

He takes both of the little men out and makes them do a dance on the dashboard together, smiling at the absurdity of it.

But Dean isn't amused. “Put them back.”

His tone is so serious that Cas complies with a shrug. “Suit yourself, I'm easy.”

They don't speak for the remainder of the drive, and when they arrive at Dean's house a few minutes later Cas is not at all surprised by what he sees. The house looks like a picture from Better Homes and Gardens magazine, red brick with white trim and colorful flowers adorning the rich, darkly mulched beds in its front. There's even a swinging bench seat on the old-fashioned wooden porch, and the front door is a tasteful, lacquered blonde wood with shining, brass-framed windows. It's a stark contrast with the neighborhood Cas grew up in back home and even the not-so-nice one he lives in now.

As if he can sense his thoughts, Dean scowls at him from the driver's seat as he parks by the curb, the driveway already taken by a few junkers that look as though they're in the process of being rebuilt.

Dean hurries them through the front door, as if one of his neighbors so much as _seeing_ him with Cas will give away what they're about to do. He locks and bolts it behind them.

Inside, the house is just as picturesque and inviting as its exterior. The furniture matches, there are framed pictures on the walls and polished mantle, and everything is clean and warm-looking. It almost makes Cas ache, makes him think of Isaac's house within which he had always been welcome—

He shakes his head and turns to Dean, “Take me upstairs.”

*

Dean has no idea why he did what Cas told him to or why they're in his house halfway through the school day while his mother works a double at the hospital and Sam is still at the middle school. He only knows that he can't tear his eyes away from Cas, from his dark hair and his guarded eyes and his tattooed hands.

He leads them up the stairs without a word, feeling as if he's in one of his dreams.

Cas's blue eyes seem to drink everything around him in silently as they walk: the pictures they pass on the stairwell, the fluffy carpeting beneath their feet, the burnished end-tables here and there against the walls with knick-knacks arranged carefully on their surfaces.

When they reach Dean's room he lets them in with a trembling hand, not offering an explanation as to the posters on the outside of his door (all of classic rock bands or football teams in clean uniforms) or the mess within that's at odds with the rest of his clean house. Cas doesn't ask about either. He just continues to look around quietly, an unidentifiable look on his sharp features. His full, pink lips are gorgeous in the soft sunlight streaming through the gaps in Dean's blinds.

Dean has no idea if they're actually going to fool around or if Cas is going to suddenly shift gears and pull his knife from his pocket again, this time to rob him blind.

Either outcome he could easily imagine, and he finds himself growing steadily more nervous as nothing is said between them for a few long minutes. Cas doesn't make any move to break the thick quiet. He simply walks around and looks at everything in Dean's room, from the framed family pictures on his shelves to the dog-eared Vonnegut books stacked on the end of his desk.

When he thinks he can't stand the silence any longer, Dean blurts out clumsily, “I'm sorry for Michael and Gordon.”

Cas turns from where he's examining the contents of Dean's bookshelf and looks him in the face then. His lips quirk.

“Why don't you show me?”

Dean isn't sure what he means, but when Cas shifts his hips pointedly, the obvious swell of him visible there beneath his black jeans, Dean knows exactly what he wants him to do. The thought makes his dick twitch with interest in his own pants at the same time that he feels a pang of misplaced chauvinism.

He scoffs nervously, “I'm not doin' that.”

Cas's doesn't look perturbed or annoyed. He just crosses his arms and says in a bored voice, “Then take me back to school.”

Dean hates how much he doesn't want to do that now that Cas is _here,_ now that they're alone together behind two locked doors. He thinks of how good it felt in the bathroom (how luscious and awful and fucking _hot_ ) when Cas took him in hand, how much he had loved the feel of the fingers firmly pressed over his open mouth, and of Cas's body, warm and inflexible against him.

He wants to find out what it feels like to have Cas's cock in his mouth, and can already feel himself hardening in his boxers at the thought of getting on his knees in front of Cas and his artless strength, in front of the unrepentant _maleness_ of him. But it scares the hell out of him that he wants it with such intensity, and he wavers. He looks from Cas's face to where he's hard in his jeans and back again.

Dean wonders if his uncertainty is obvious, because Cas's expression softens for a moment in a way that's entirely out of place on a face as cold as his. He says to Dean, every word heavy with hard-earned sincerity, “There's nothing wrong with us.”

The minuscule scrap of sympathy is all it takes to break Dean down, and before he knows it he's sinking to his knees on the carpeted floor in front of Cas. He has no idea what he's doing, but wants to learn. His body is shaking again with virgin nerves and a nameless hunger. He watches as Cas unbuckles his jeans and pulls his erection from under the waistband of his faded navy briefs.

Cas isn't very long, but he's thick and well-formed, the skin there smooth and even like silk, and he protrudes from a nest of fine, dark hair. His hips are wide when his jeans slowly slip down to reveal them, shapely and almost like those of a woman's, but more angular. Cas smells clean and like the hot, metallic scent of cloth-chafed skin, and the head of his cock is flushed and seeps a single, pearled drop of pre-come.

Dean looks up at Cas from his new vantage point, sees the blue of his eyes underneath the fringe of black lashes. Cas brings his hand around to cup the back of Dean's head and feeds him his cock with one fluid motion. Whatever tenderness Cas showed Dean just moments before is gone now. His hand is fisted in Dean's hair with a grip tight enough to tear skin.

Dean opens his mouth just in time and breathes as well as he can around the hard length, and his eyes fill with water as he tries not to cough. When Cas begins to slowly fuck his mouth, he thinks with relief that he can pull this off. For a few minutes he's allowed to grow used to the steady in-and-out of the cock between his lips, and he closes his eyes. He brings his hands up to grasp Cas's muscular hips, desperate to touch him more, to feel the brawn of his thighs and the jut of bone under his palms. He's never been with another guy like this.

This isn't like the guy Dean reamed at the party, where it was so quick, nameless and easy that he could have been just another girl beneath him. Cas is so _close_ , so fucking close to him. He's not turned away and practically invisible, he's present and tasting of salt and musk on Dean's tongue, and he lets out a deep moan around Cas's dick at the thought.

As if Cas knows things have just escalated, he begins to fuck Dean's mouth faster and deeper. His eyes water every time Cas slams into the back of his throat. When Cas's cock jerks in his mouth Dean thinks that the other boy is about to come and sucks harder, only to have Cas extricate himself with a wet _pop_ and stand Dean back up in one smooth movement.

Dean's about to ask why he was stopped when Cas presses close to him and kisses him brutally. He bites his lower lip for the second time that day, and Dean _knows_  this time thatit's bleeding. Cas licks into his mouth after that, undoubtedly tasting himself and the bright copper of fresh blood on Dean's tongue.

It's as if Cas doesn't know how to kiss gently, as if every time he tries he ends up laying claim to whatever he can reach instead. The thought is one that surprises Dean and that doesn't make sense, but it stays lodged in his mind anyway as Cas pushes forward still further and sinks his teeth into Dean's lips again. Dean gives a cry of pain.

“I want inside you,” Cas exhales in a rough whisper, and before Dean can respond he's caught off-guard as Cas pushes him backwards onto the bed a few feet away.

“I don't know if I can do— _that_ —” Dean stutters as Cas climbs on top of him and straddles his hips.

“You've never been with a guy?” Cas asks him as he begins to undo the top button of Dean's pants.

The way he's looking down at Dean, like he wants to crawl into his body and devour him from the _inside_ , makes Dean think of the Cas who fucks him in his dreams.

It's wrong how much Dean wants him as he lays there under the warmth of Cas's body, how much he wants the pain and whatever pleasure may come from it if he can just feel it for himself, get _closer_. Closer to what, exactly, he isn't sure. But it's a compelling desire.

“I fucked a guy, once,” Dean admits with a whisper.

“You can take me,” Cas says with conviction before he pins Dean's wrists together with one hand and with the other reaches between them and yanks Dean's jeans and boxers down from around his hips. Loosed of its confines, Dean's hard-on bobs up and slaps against his stomach.

Cas bends down to bite the meat of Dean's shoulder, hard, harder than he did his lip. Dean's distracted by the pain as Cas wraps his hand around his newly-freed cock and begins to stroke him, pulling a low moan from his throat.

“Please—just be—careful,” Dean huffs out between strokes and the hickeys Cas is sucking with vigor onto his chest and neck. His body is wound tight and his dick is so hard it hurts.

*

“How long do we have until everyone comes home?” Cas asks with his lips still fastened on Dean's throat, a bruise already developing under his tongue.

“'Til seven,” Dean says shakily.

“We have more than enough time,” Cas says to Dean in response as he bends and pulls a nipple into his mouth, tightening his hold on Dean's wrists at the same time. He hears Dean gasp aloud at the sensation and smiles around the hardened bud caught between his teeth.

Cas can see Dean's apprehension, can feel it in the tension of his musculature, taut under his hands where before it was pliant. Dean's fear of his first time is understandable and justified, and Cas doesn't blame him. But he also doesn't plan on stopping. He's been with enough people to know what that particular part of the anatomy is capable of. He's confident enough in his ability to make it, if not good for Dean, at the very least memorable.

After a while Cas straightens up and asks his host, “You got any lube? Condoms?”

Dean nods silently, his green eyes huge as he looks up at Cas, who lets go of his wrists and sits back, awaiting instruction.

“They're by the bed,” Dean motions to his dresser and Cas slides off of him to stand and open the top drawer, where he finds the referenced stash.

Dean has fuckin' _Astroglide_ and enough condoms to fuck a cheerleading squad (Cas smirks to himself at the irony).

Cas steps out of his jeans and briefs and pulls his shirt over his head, thinking he may as well while he's up. He does so without modesty or second thoughts as he stands bare beside the bed, an air-conditioned draft fluttering over his skin and making his nipples stand at attention.

Cas looks back toward where Winchester is still lying on his back on the bed. His jeans and underwear are down around his knees and his dark blue v-neck is rucked up over his pink, bitten nipples. Dean is staring at Cas silently, his eyes roving up and down his exposed body.

Cas says bluntly, “Get naked.” He wants to see him, to get his hands, nails and teeth on as many places as he can reach of Dean's body. He wants to fill him and leave him with a place inside that feels empty when Cas is gone.

Dean blushes and does as he says without resistance, and Cas languidly watches him undress, watches the tanned expanse of his skin as it grows under the midday light softening the contrast of his many freckles.

Dean is beautiful, he thinks idly to himself, and it makes him angry. A beautiful boy in a beautiful house with a beautiful family, none of which he likely appreciates or thinks about.

Cas stores the thought somewhere near his heart and crawls back onto Dean's lap, the heat of their soft, unclothed skin touching enough to send shivers down his spine that he will never tell anyone about.

Dean gasps and closes his eyes as their dicks slide into place beside one another as if they were made that way, and Cas takes them both in his hand.

“You ever done this before?” he asks in a low voice. He takes a selfish satisfaction in being the first and knowing it as Dean throws his head back and moans when Cas swipes the pad of his thumb over the adjacent tips of their cocks. Dean's throat is bruised and reddened from Cas's lips and tongue, and it makes him want to do the same to the rest of his body.

“We're going to do everything you've never done today,” Cas says with a growl, and Dean shudders beneath him.

Cas jerks them together like that until Dean's chest and neck are flushed and his cock is giving a telltale pulse in Cas's hand. He pulls away then to reach for the lube beside them on the table. He squirts a fat drop onto his fingers, making sure they're coated with it as he backs off of Dean's thighs to sit between them, nudging his legs apart with a jab of his knee.

Dean looks mildly dazed from the swift change in activities, his eyes widening as he realizes what Cas is about to do and his lips quirking nervously as his tongue darts out to wet them. But he doesn't ask Cas to stop, and he gives an almost imperceptible nod of his head and lays back again, his breathing quickening.

When Cas slips a hand between Dean's legs, a wet finger brushing the entrance to his body, Dean jerks a little. He's obviously self-conscious and uncertain. But Cas continues steadily, working the tip of his finger inside and slowly moving just the first joint in and out. He grabs Dean's flagging erection with his other hand to keep him going. Dean is tight around him, his inner muscles clenching nervously at every inward movement of Cas's fingertip. But after a few minutes he slowly relaxes enough so that Cas can fit the length of his pointer finger inside.

When Cas decides that it's time to show Dean why being fucked in the ass can be as good as having a pussy, he presses deeper and looks for a spot inside of him with his finger. It's one he's enjoyed enough times in his own body, and he knows he's found it when Dean cries out and begins to shake. His eyes fly open when Cas crooks his finger to better get at it. He pulls his finger out carefully and applies more lube as quickly as he can before returning and slowly working two fingers in. Dean clenches again, then, and Cas jacks him a little faster, hearing Dean breathe heavily at the speed-up.

Cas has his pointer and middle finger both crooked inside him soon, and Dean is moaning every time he presses up, his cock twitching responsively.

“Never done that before—” Dean manages to get out, hands balled into fists by his sides as Cas adds a third while he's talking and begins to 'v' his fingers.

“You ever finger yourself before this?” Cas asks, and Dean nods.

“But I could never get the right angle,” Dean admits.

“I think I found it,” Cas says without humor. His own cock is hard as a fucking hammer and unattended as it's been all day. Its longing tip is almost touching the inside of one of Dean's thighs.

It's been almost half an hour of prep by the time Dean can take three fingers without gasping in pain, and Cas has held off letting him come all the while. If he hadn't have been, the star quarterback would have had two or three orgasms by now.

Cas mindfully pulls his fingers out from between Dean's legs and moves back on the bed to give him some room.

“Turn over,” he tells Dean shortly as he rips one of the condoms from its foil row on the dresser.

Dean's face goes from surprised to hurt in less than thirty seconds as he comprehends Cas's request, and he doesn't immediately move to do it.

“I said _turn over_ ,” Cas says with irritation as he extends his arms and bodily shifts Dean onto his stomach, unconcernedly spreading his legs again from the new angle.

*

Dean isn't sure what he was expecting when Cas said he was going to fuck him, but being told to turn around as if Cas doesn't even want to see his face while he does it? That stings a little.

It isn't as if he was expecting them to passionately make love while staring into each other's eyes or anything, but he'd thought...Dean pushes his questions away and focuses on holding himself still as he breathes in the scent of the fabric softener permeating the sheets pressed against his nose.

Cas is a hard motherfucker to read, and a hard motherfucker generally speaking. He probably should have guessed they wouldn't face each other, first time or not, he tells himself.

Not that his dick apparently has a problem with any of the details gnawing at the back of his mind. He's still hard as he spreads his legs, hearing the soft rustle of Cas rolling the condom on.

Dean's cock is trapped between his torso and the soft bed under him. When he feels the hot, slick head of Cas's dick rub against the hole he's had his fingers inside for the past thirty minutes, he thinks he might come from the feel of that alone. His body is sensitive after the many times he almost finished while Cas prepped him. Dean thinks he understands why now.

Dean feels as if he's been waiting his whole life in this bed with Cas behind him. He's so close, so hard and so _male_. He knows it will hurt this time, maybe every time he does this with anyone. But the possibility of pain pales in the face of how right it feels to be under another guy, to feel them press into the cleft Dean's willingly offering.

When Cas begins to breach him, Dean tenses at the unfamiliar feeling of the penetration as the head of Cas' cock struggles to push past his rim. He hisses loudly when it does, and clutches at the sheets as Cas stills in him for a moment, letting him adjust, which he's grateful for.

It hurts, there's no two-ways about it.

“Touch yourself,” Cas whispers hoarsely, and Dean does as he's told, reaching under his own body and wrapping his fingers around his half-hard cock, stroking himself rapidly.

When Cas moves again a minute or so later, sliding in further now that the initial threshold has been crossed, Dean continues to touch himself, thinking with a hot dart of pleasure deep in his belly how similar this is to the dreams he's been having of Cas in their precal classroom.

By the time Cas begins to pull back a little and slide back in, Dean notices that the pain has lessened.

Dean can hear Cas breathing heavily, can feel his huffed-out breaths on the back of his neck and the damp warmth of his muscled arms where they bracket his shoulders. The combination is this-side of overwhelming. The feeling of Cas moving in him is so different than it was his dreams, where the nonspecific sexual bliss imparted from a fantasy had almost no meaning.

Cas in reality is the pull of his coarsely-haired thighs against the back of Dean's splayed legs, the bluntness of the head of his cock spearing him open, the external drag of his length in and out against Dean's stretched, fluttering rim. He doesn't realize he's whimpering quietly with every thrust of Cas inside him until one of Cas's arms moves and Dean suddenly has a hand over his mouth again, the way he did in the bathroom. It's enough to send him falling through the dark forgetfulness of orgasm. Dean is only his body in this moment, only the slicked opening Cas is the first to take, and he knows the hand over his mouth isn't enough to muffle his cries.

Dean manages to get one of Cas's fingers between his teeth and bites down on it as he comes, his release spurting over his own hand and the sheets under him.

Cas groans loudly and partially pulls his hand back from Dean's face, keeping only one finger hooked in the corner of his mouth and dragging Dean's head back and up. He uses Dean's jaw as a handle as he begins to fuck him savagely and in earnest, gaining on his own finish line.

The speed and degree of the change are such that Dean sobs dryly at how hard Cas is fucking into his oversensitized body. His cock is ramming into the same place he showed him with his fingers earlier by sheer coincidence and accidental angling.

“Fuck—fuck—oh—god—” Dean can't stop gasping out as his body trembles violently. He feels as if he's about to burst from his very skin as Cas fucks mercilessly into him over and over again. Dean's cock is only half-hard when it jerks and drips more white onto the come already drying on the hand still wedged beneath his body. Dean holds his breath and rides the wave of it, feeling as if he's about to black out and going limp underneath Cas.

When Cas comes, he pulls out of Dean roughly, and he hears the sound of the condom being stripped off at the same time he feels warm wetness on his back. The finger in his mouth slips out, and then he's cold as Cas climbs off of him. Dean turns halfway onto his side weakly, watching as Cas grabs a few tissues from the box on his dresser and wipes himself clean, He throws the used paper in the trash and is already starting to pull his clothes back on.

“Already?” Dean asks.

*

“Take me home,” is the only thing Cas says in response, ignoring how good Dean looks right now, striped with his come and with lips still rouged with blood that could pass for lipstick.

“Are you sure?” Dean asks uncertainly, finally seeming to get his bearings as he reaches for some tissues himself, awkwardly attempting to wipe the semen from his back.

“Yes,” Cas says shortly.

 

The drive to Cas's aunt's house is a short one, and when they arrive Dean looks as if he wants to hug him, leaning forward in the car, so minutely one could pretend they hadn't seen it if they wanted, before he thinks better of it, for which Cas is more than a little glad.

“Do you want my number?” Dean asks as Cas moves to let himself out, his voice small and his eyes downcast.

“Why would I want that?” Cas says in response as he gets out of the car and shuts the door behind him without a second glance back.

*

At dinner that night, Sam tells Dean he seems different somehow, and Dean doesn't know what to say to that.

When he goes back upstairs after throwing away half a plate of food he turns the shower on and stays beneath the hot stream for almost an hour, feeling like a piece of gum under someone's shoe and simultaneously the most physically satisfied he's ever been in his life.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, Cas is an asshole, I know. You'll find out why soon enough, just bear with me 'til then.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean plays better in Friday's game than he did the week previous, and his teammates surround him on the field after they're announced the winners, whooping and clapping raucously along with their peers in the crowded bleachers. The noise of the cheers and happy screeches are deafening, and Dean's relieved that he redeemed himself from the last game.

Dean doesn't realize that he's looking for Cas until he's scanned the emptying bleachers more than once without catching sight of him. He feels a strange bitterness that he isn't there, and admits to himself with a painful twist in the pit of his stomach that he'd outdone himself partially in the hopes that Cas would be there, watching him again.

He spends his weekend with his brother, mostly, though both Gordon and Michael call and ask if he wants to go out and celebrate their win. He turns them down.

Sammy's one of the smartest kids Dean knows, and this weekend they spend almost the entirety of Saturday night holed-up in his room going over equations and scientific vocabulary.

If Sam thinks it's weird that Dean isn't out with a girl or his friends, he says nothing of it. But Dean knows he's probably wondering; he's practically never home on Saturday evenings, hasn't been since he started high school, joined the team and lost his virginity to Lisa Braeden in the back seat of the Impala.

But all Sam says is, “You'd tell me if something was wrong, right?”

Dean replies ruefully, “No chick-flick moments, dude. I'm just tired.”

The words don't ring true even to his own ears, but Sam doesn't call him on it.

*

Cas spends his weekend sleeping too much and taking swigs of the rotgut vodka he asked the homeless guy he passes by every day to buy for him.

He didn't go to the football game on Friday, but by Monday has overheard more than a few students talking about the stellar win the school gained thanks to Winchester's prowess, and in second period Cas is approached by an Amazonian blonde who asks him if he wants to sign a card for Dean telling him how much they appreciate him.

“What the fuck are you saying to me?” he asks blearily, having been woken up from a nap he was thoroughly enjoying in his English class.

Blondie looks affronted, “Dean Winchester is the quarterback of the football team and he volunteers regularly for—”

Cas cuts her off before she can continue, feeling as if he shouldn't have come to school at all, “Don't care. Go suck his dick if you want to show him how much you appreciate him.”

She huffs angrily at him and stalks away, the glittery card still in her hands. Cas looks down at his own, at the lines of his palms under the black leather of his fingerless gloves.

Somehow he thought he would feel less alone if he walked away before Dean could, and he doesn't.

*

Cas hasn't said a word to Dean the entire week.

It's Thursday, and they've spent the past two precal sessions without so much as accidental eye-contact. On Monday Dean walked into third period to discover that Cas had moved to another row and three seats up, making it impossible for Dean to interact with him without going out of his way.

Jo hasn't even noticed Cas's relocation or the way Dean catches himself looking at the back of his head throughout class. She's currently broadcasting the Michael Milton Channel 24/7 and is almost entirely wrapped-up in their developing relationship. Dean's had to listen to it incessantly since Monday.

Cas never once looks back at him.

At home things haven't changed: John is in Oregon wrapping up a business deal, Mary works doubles at the hospital, and Dean's dreams of Cas are still a solid fixture of his nights as much as he tries to will them to stop.

But they continue. The only difference now is that when Dean dreams of Cas fucking him, they do it in his bed on top of his rumpled blue sheets the way they did their first and only time. Dean wakes up hard to a pillow that still vaguely smells of Cas's cigarettes and pale skin.

He doesn't make himself come after waking up from the dreams the way he used to. He hates how much he wants to experience Cas again, skin-to-skin and hips locked together hotly as they were before. Now, he just waits for his hard-on to go down, angrily burying his face in his arms and wishing that the thought of a girl beneath him held even a limited appeal.

Because it doesn't anymore.

*

Cas doesn't talk to Dean, even though he wants to, badly.

The ache to be alone with him again is so strong he's afraid of it, and when he goes to the game on Friday and sits away from everyone else in the tops of the bleachers again, he claws lingering, deep red scores into the insides of his arms to keep himself from rushing down the metal steps and pulling the football player into the darkness beyond the field with him.

Their team has just won for the second week in a row, the last game of the season, no less. Cas feels the early winter wind chill his skin as he imagines Winchester fucking some girl in celebration that night, imagines him living his fake, straight life filled with people who have no idea how easy everything is for them, how safe and boring and sunlit.

Cas wants to fuck Dean again, wants to slip inside the wound he knows he's made and keep it from healing. But he doesn't move from where he's sitting, watching the quarterback receive hugs from perky, blonde cheerleaders and hard slaps on the back from Michael and Gordon.

Dean looks happy, his smile white and his eyes so bright Cas can practically see their color even from how far removed he is.

 

He drinks enough vodka to sanitize a laboratory before he goes to bed a few hours later, and it does nothing to dull the sick heat in his limbs that he feels as he thinks of Isaac, who he's never been able to forget. Isaac, who he's never truly _wanted_ to forget. Isaac, whose soft brown eyes don't open again after they close when he lies motionless on a dirty sidewalk Cas knows well.

Isaac, whose blood makes a circle around his head like a halo.

Cas tries to remember how Isaac's skin felt beneath his hands, and when he can only call up the memory of Dean's, throws up in the trashcan beside his bed.

*

When Dean leads the team to victory a second time and they win the final game of the season, he knows he should feel exuberant, but he doesn't.

Michael and Gordon drag him to the house party at Hester's after they've showered and gotten dressed, and he lets them, driving alone in the Impala behind them to where he can already hear the blaring music.

Everyone is drinking, and Hester is telling him how wonderfully he played, batting her eyelashes at him and leaning forward enough that Dean can see down her low-cut red peasant blouse. Her chest looks as soft and generous as he knows it to be from experience, the light blue veins running under her pale skin almost pretty in their own way. Dean drinks three beers in less than thirty minutes, and when Hester pulls him upstairs with her after he's just finished his third he's feeling a little buzzed considering he hasn't eaten in a few hours.

He's been in Hester's room, in Hester's _bed_ , more than once, and he tries to follow the worn dance steps he knows will move things along the way she always wants it. He kisses her softly, tugging on her hair until she lets it down from its ponytail, gathering her up and pressing her against the wall as she wraps her thighs around his waist. But he's only half-hard by the time she's naked under him.

“You okay?” she asks breathlessly as she arches up against him and presses a soft kiss to his shoulder.

He wishes she would bite him.

“I'm fine,” he mumbles. “You wanna get on top?”

She nods eagerly and waits for him to move so she can comply, and when she straddles him, the wetness between her legs hot and thick, Dean just hopes he's hard enough to even fuck her.

When she slides down on his cock Dean reflexively reaches for her clit, massaging her gently with his fingers as she rides him. It's uncomfortable; his body doesn't really want to cooperate and Hester's so _soft_ , delicate and curved and smooth from where she's shaved her legs and arms. She smells like floral perfume and fruity hairpsray and he can feel her long hair brushing his cheeks and neck as she hovers over him. It all feels wrong in a way Dean was able to ignore before Cas, and he wants to get out from under her and leave as he slowly softens inside her.

Dean shakes his head and pushes Hester off of him before she can figure out what's going on. 

“What's wrong?” she asks with annoyance, crossing her arms as she stares at him.

“I feel sick,” he says truthfully. “'m sorry, I'll see you at school next week.”

Before she has the chance to respond Dean finishes getting dressed and leaves her room, walking downstairs and passing a few couples making out against the railing, all completely absorbed in each other and not noticing when he brushes past them. He presses through the throng of drunk high-schoolers in the living room methodically, not bothering to find Michael and Gordon even though he knows Jo has likely arrived and he wouldn't mind seeing her.

He's not even remotely buzzed anymore by the time he's standing outside next to his car looking for his keys, and he drives home without incident to a darkened house.

Sam and his mother have apparently gone to bed early, and Dean makes his way to his bedroom as quietly as he can, slipping into his bed face-down and falling asleep very soon after. He's exhausted from the game and wants nothing more than a few hours of forgetfulness.

He doesn't get what he wants. Instead he dreams of Cas fucking him so hard he can't move, one of his lean arms pressed over Dean's throat as it was in the bathroom.

Cas is everywhere, inside him so deep and hot he wants to scream, draped over him heavy like a crash of ocean water, _on_ him smelling of soap and coffee. Drops of his sweat fall into the divet of Dean's spine with every unforgiving thrust into his body, and when Cas slips a hand between them and roughly forces a finger into Dean alongside his own cock, Dean wakes up to an orgasm wrenched from him by someone who isn't even there. His hot release paints his chest and belly as his breaths come in hard pants that sound like sobs.

He gets up to shower after that, even though it's after four in the morning.

 

On Monday morning, when Dean opens his locker, he notices a piece of paper loosened by the motion, and catches it as it flutters down from the top shelf.

A phone number with an area code Dean doesn't recognize is scribbled on one side when he unfolds the bit of paper. The other side says only: _Guess I changed my mind – C._

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Parts may seem a little dub-con-y, read with caution if this is a trigger for you.

After Cas leaves his phone number in Dean's locker, almost twenty-four hours pass before he gets a text from an unknown sender. Though Cas has been telling himself every passing hour that he isn't betting on Dean contacting him at all, he's surprised at how relieved he suddenly feels as he reads the message.

“ _You left yr # in my locker?”_

It comes as he's walking home to his aunt's Tuesday after school, and Cas isn't able to make himself wait until he's reached the house to respond. He hasn't gotten a text from anyone in weeks and for a moment almost forgets how to send one of his own. But he manages.

“ _Guess who, pretty boy.”_

Cas keeps an eye on the glowing screen as he opens the front door and lets himself into his aunt's house. He notices that today, instead of occupying her usual spot at the dining room table and reading magazines, his aunt is sitting in her outdated reclining chair in the living room watching a sitcom. Her smile fades as she catches sight of Cas, as if seeing him drains her of mirth. He feels the muscles of his back tense under his faded t-shirt at the thought. He silently makes his way to his room, wondering again why it was she decided to let him live with her in the first place.

But he doesn't dwell on the question for long when he feels his phone vibrate in his clenched fist with a response from Dean.

_“Are u fking serious right now? Ur the one who didn't wanna talk”_

Cas closes and locks his door before bending and beginning to loosen the laces of his boots so he can take them off. He's awkwardly half-crouched between the dresser and the few boxes he still hasn't bothered to unpack. He tries to brace himself more sturdily and curses in surprise when he gracelessly loses his balance, misjudging the distance of one of those very boxes.

He winces as his left hip takes the brunt of the fall and the brown box he tripped over follows him down onto its side on the stiff tufts of the ancient carpeting in his room. He has one black boot still on and the other mostly tugged off as he sits on his throbbing hip, staring blankly down at what the box contained, now spread in spades of faded manila and white.

Cas feels bile singe his tongue as he realizes that he's looking at Isaac's familiar handwriting. It's scrawled over the torn brown paper covers of textbooks, sheets of notebook paper with history notes forgotten and written over, computer paper stolen from a broken library printer once upon a time, even a wrinkled napkin spotted with coffee. He still remembers vividly how happy those bits of paper used to make him when he found them in his desk or his backpack.

_Te amo, siempre y en el presente._

Remembering is the last thing he wants to do.

Cas hears the obnoxious braying of canned laughter from his aunt's show through the door, and is abruptly snapped back to reality, where he's still sitting on the floor with only one shoe on surrounded by Spanglish love letters.

He quickly rights the upended box, gathering the scraps of paper and shoving them into it again with hands unsteady and pale. He wants more of the vodka he finished off that weekend, or some green to smoke. He has neither.

All he has is the first person to text him since he moved to Texas.

“ _I think we should meet up tonite,”_ he clacks out on the outdated keypad.

“ _Y the fuck wld I do that?”_ Flashes across his screen not five minutes later.

“ _Do I need to spell it out for u?”_ Cas texts before looking up at his ceiling while he waits for a reply, tracing with his eyes brown water stains shaped like rain clouds.

“ _Where?”_ Dean answers a half-hour later.

*

Dean almost turns around in his car twice on the short drive to the nearby park. He's seething with resentment and continually reminding himself that he's only meeting up with Cas to tell him just _where_ he can put his taunts and solicitations.

It's past midnight. Dean had to wait until both Sam and Mary were asleep before he crept down the stairs and out the door, backing Baby out of the driveway with the headlights off so as not to shine his high-beams into the front windows.

The park at the corner of 2 nd  and Finley looks different at night, he finds, less neat and trimmed, less safe. The jungle gym is tall and winding like the spectral frame of a house, the swings creaking shrilly as they're pushed back and forth in the darkness by the winter breeze. The nearby streetlight has been out for almost a week, and the moon above is the sole source of illumination. It shines dully through thin wisps of cloud, just enough light making its way through so that the pebbles beneath the swing set shine like water, but not so bright that the shadows have been bled out.

Dean parks nearby and gets out quickly. He casts a look around to make sure there's no one else at the park as he makes his way over to the orange glow of Cas's cigarette. He's shaking with anger as he strides towards him, tasting hateful words in the back of his throat that he's not sure he can keep unspoken.

The Californian is standing by the monkey bars with his back against one of the rusted steel poles. The carcinogenic light of his habit just barely highlights the cheekbones sharp enough to cut flesh. He doesn't bother to look at Dean as he approaches him, instead idly kicking at the rocks under his heavy boots.

“I knew you'd come,” Cas says after a few minutes of quiet. He's still looking anywhere but at Dean.

“Whatever,” Dean practically spits the word. “I came here to tell you I'm fuckin' done. Have a nice goddamn life.”

“You're still an awful liar.” Smoke swirls from Cas's lips in puffs timed with the heaves of his laughter, and Dean wants to hit him. His hands curl into fists at his sides.

“I'm serious, asshole. I'm leaving now,” Dean moves to walk back to his car, only to feel a hand on his shoulder as he's turned back around.

Cas carelessly throws his cigarette off to the side where it slowly begins to dim amidst the pebbles. His grip is so tight on Dean's shoulder he imagines its clear, red imprint forming on his skin.

Cas doesn't say anything to Dean. He doesn't stare him down the way he did in the men's room. He doesn't bracket him in with a hand on his throat. This time he simply moves forward and presses his smoke-dry lips to Dean's, harder than he ever has before, his teeth sharp against Dean's mouth as they always are.

Dean pulls away with an angry noise, the rage he's been quelling flooding him in a hot, ugly wave.

“Fuck you!” he hisses as he shoves Cas back with both hands. But Cas grasps the front of his shirt and pulls Dean down with him onto the cold, pebbled ground.

Dean uses his slight weight advantage to roll Cas onto his back as quickly as he can, only to feel a well-placed cuff on the side of his jaw catch him off-guard. Cas pushes him roughly onto his back and reverses their positions, straddling Dean's hips and doing his best to hold his hands above his head.

“Fuck,” Dean sputters as Cas bends down over him to kiss him again, feeling how hard the dark-haired boy is in his jeans and trying not to be affected by it. He manages to get one of his hands free and shoves Cas to the side, rolling out from under him.

But Cas is quick, and on him again soon. His mouth is warm and tastes of smoke as he opens Dean's lips with his tongue. The audacity of it should anger Dean, that Cas is so confident Dean won't bite him that he does as he pleases. But instead he feels his cock begin to harden in his pants. It's an aching, shameful arousal. His back is pressed into the cold ground as they rut together in the center of a playground, only a broken streetlight affording them the darkness that hides their strange dance.

Cas is breathing heavily against Dean's lips as he slots them together through their jeans. His hands are clasped around Dean's wrists again, his grip now loose enough that Dean could extricate himself if he wanted to.

But he doesn't want to, and he gasps at the feeling of Cas's body heavy on his, at the bite of the rocks in his back and the scrape of Cas's stubble on his face.

Dean knows he should move away, that this is the script they used the last time and the last time is still eating at him like a sore filled with dirt. But he kisses Cas back instead, offering his mouth for the taking.

Cas doesn't look down at him as he sits up, separating their mouths. His lips are red and swollen in the scant moonlight as he pulls Dean's shirt up and drags blunt nails down Dean's chest, his ribs, before bending back down to cover him with his body again. Cas bites his earlobe, runs his tongue down the side of his neck. Dean shudders.

When Cas begins to work at Dean's belt with deft fingers, unbuckling it easily, he's fairly certain he's bleeding somewhere. But Dean can't find it in himself to care as Cas pulls his cock from his boxers before unzipping his own pants with his free hand.

Soon, the dick Dean remembers coming impaled on is free in the cool night air. Cas licks a lewd, wet stripe down his palm before taking them both in hand. It's the exact same thing he did the last time they were alone together in Dean's room, but it feels somehow different now, exposed as they are in the winter night and fooling around where anyone could catch them like the teenagers they are.

Cas is soon jacking them simultaneously, and Dean lets out a whimper at how warm Cas's cock is against his, how smooth the skin and hard the flesh.

Cas isn't interested in foreplay, and Dean's breathing heavily at how quickly Cas is jerking them, close to coming from the feeling of Cas bent low over him, of the worn cotton of his t-shirt chafing Dean's nipples.

To his surprise, Cas comes first, moaning loudly and twitching as his cock spurts hot jets of release over his own hand and Dean. It sends him over the edge embarrassingly quickly not long after. But Cas doesn't stop stroking him until Dean begs him breathlessly, says that he's had enough.

One moment they're gasping and clutching at each other, covered in warm come and cooling sweat, and the next Cas is jerking away from Dean as if he's diseased, buttoning his jeans back up quickly and sitting a few feet away on the dusty ground.

Dean doesn't know how he feels at that moment, confused at the rapid-fire change in his emotions just minutes before and still disoriented from his orgasm. So he focuses on using the edges of his shirt to mop up the mess drying on his chest and belly rather than trying to parce it all out.

Cas lights a cigarette beside him, and Dean wonders why he hasn't left yet. It occurs to him that perhaps he doesn't want to walk home in the cold. But when he offers him a ride back Cas looks at him as if he can't believe what he's asking, a sneer of distaste on his lips.

“I just...I remember where you live, and it's not exactly safe this time of night,” Dean says truthfully, already regretting his words and feeling like he's just been used a second time.

“I don't fucking need anything from you,” Cas says carefully. The words are enunciated exaggeratedly enough to sting, and Cas stands and begins to walk away quickly, almost angrily, as if Dean's offer personally offended him.

Later, once he's successfully snuck back into his own house, Dean stands in front of his mirror, noting that he has red scratches down his chest and a hand-shaped bruise on his arm.

Cas doesn't text him again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation:  
> 'I love you, forever and for now' (indirectly)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy this chapter, I loved writing it.

The following day Cas has precalculus. He considers skipping the class, envisioning himself out smoking behind the bleachers instead of being trapped in a classroom with a teacher who doesn't give two shits about her job and oblivious peers who don't know him from a smudge on the sidewalk.

The thought is fleeting and idle, however, and one Cas knows he won't follow through on. He finds himself ambling down the familiar hall near the back of the school halfway through the day as his schedule requires. He takes in with unfocused eyes the dingy lights and the beige walls above the lockers before he lets himself into the classroom.

Cas is half-convinced Dean will skip class to avoid him when it's less than a minute until the tardy bell and he hasn't made an appearance. But not thirty seconds after that thought, Dean walks into the classroom, his bookbag slung over one broad shoulder. There's no Jo beside him the way she usually is, and Winchester looks smaller somehow without her.

Cas can see the faint bite mark he himself left on Dean's earlobe, the way a piece of short, dirty-blonde hair falls into one of his eyes, the fluid movement of his muscled legs beneath baggy denim.

Dean catches his blatant stare about the same time Cas realizes he hasn't bothered to hide it. He reacts noticeably, and a flush colors his tanned, freckled cheeks as his steps grind to a conspicuous halt.

For a second Cas thinks Dean might say something to him as he stands there, only a few feet from his desk. But he doesn't, and after another instant that feels like an age Dean finishes the journey to his own desk a few rows back.

Cas opens his composition notebook to a blank page and takes out his pocketknife. He moves slowly and deliberately as he begins to cut a design that could be tribal into the flesh of the smooth, white paper. The jut of the familiar handle grasped in his gloved fingers makes Cas feel somehow grounded, and he tries not to think of the boy behind him. He focuses on the slits he makes through the blue veins of the notebook paper.

Class begins soon after, and the teacher doesn't make the effort to move from the comfort of her desk to inform her students that today is a review day. She returns to checking her phone immediately after.

Everyone begins to chatter amongst themselves soon, though talk of formulas and numbers is not what can be heard issuing from the scattered groups in the room.

When none other than Dean's friend, Jo, stumbles into the classroom twenty minutes later Cas makes no attempt to divert his gaze from her. Her entrance is almost unheard in the volume of miscellaneous conversations now in full-swing everywhere in the room. Jo's delicate face is red and tear-streaked, and her light hair is pulled into an exceptionally disheveled ponytail.

Jo doesn't sit in her usual spot across from Dean, but sinks down shakily into the desk directly in front of his, sniffling loudly as more tears course down her cheeks. Dean's expression contorts into one of concerned alarm as soon as he notices his friend's obvious distress, and he gets up from his desk to kneel beside her seat. He pulls her into his arms.

“What's wrong, Joanna? Do I need to kill Mikey?” Dean asks her, so quietly Cas almost doesn't catch it.

A few other students look over at the two of them. But they seem to lose interest quickly, giving Dean and Jo relative privacy with how far to the side their seats are.

The teacher still hasn't looked up from where she sits, texting under her desk.

“M-Mimi died. Mom called last period,” Jo says unsteadily between gulping, watery breaths, “She t-took a turn for the worst last night.”

“Oh, shit. I'm sorry, Jo,” Dean says with sympathy so genuine Cas wonders if Dean's ever met the woman Jo's talking about.

Jo bursts into a fresh bout of tears, and Dean gently stands her up and begins to walk her towards the door. He supports her shaking frame easily. The teacher doesn't spare them so much as a glance as they leave, the white light from her phone making the lenses of her glasses shine.

Cas feels anger as he watches Jo's small shoulders hitch in Dean's leather-clad arms as they walk out into the hallway.

When shit hit the fan in California, Cas had been utterly alone.

Isaac's parents blamed (and likely still blame) Cas for what happened. His own father and sister hadn't been able to pull themselves from the mire of their respective habits long enough to do more than offer him booze or tar. The closest Cas had gotten to having someone he could talk to had been the nurse who checked his healing head wound once or twice a day during his hospital stay. Every time she came to see him, she'd asked if he wanted to talk, if he wanted her to stay a little longer.

He'd never answered her.

Cas doesn't feel bad for Jo. All he feels is a painful, dark bitterness that cuts deep into him where he thought he'd paved himself over.

When class ends and the two of them still haven't come back in, Cas has to stop himself from grabbing Winchester's bag and dumping its contents onto the floor on his way out. He digs his nails into his palms to avert the urge, grabbing his own bag and leaving the room as quickly as he can. He indelicately pushes people out of the way as he presses forward.

The faces of the other students in the crowded hall are mere blurs of color as Cas rushes past them. The sounds of their words and their empty breaths feel like living, unpleasantly warm things that he wants to run and hide from. Peripherally he sees Dean and Jo and makes the decision to leave school. He needs a cigarette and he needs a drink.

Cas knows he's been skipping class often enough to jeopardize his impending graduation and that he should go to his last period. But he exits out the back double doors anyway, into cool gray and the remnants of rain. Cas starts to sprint, then, his breath tearing at his lungs and water streaming from his eyes as he barrels through the chain-link gate, the gentle clinking noises it makes in the breeze like silver on the air. The wind stings his skin, the dry iciness of it seeping down his throat and into the trenches of his chest.

He wants to go home, but doesn't have one and has no idea if he ever did to begin with.

*

Mary asks Dean if Jo's doing any better as they wash dishes together the following morning before school. John is scheduled to come home in two days, and Dean can tell his mother is on-edge, though she would never say so.

Sam's already been gone for over thirty minutes, having taken the bus to spend time with his friends. It's just the two of them in the kitchen. Early-morning sunlight is just peeking through the sky-blue curtains framing the window, and Dean is startled by his mother's question when he shouldn't be.

“They've known for a while that Ellen's mom didn't have much time. I think she's just in shock right now,” Dean says as he stares down at hands submerged in hot, soapy water. “She's not gonna come to school today, she texted me 'bout an hour ago.”

Mary is quietly pensive for a few minutes before she says, “I think I'm going to make Ellen some food to help her through the next few days. She hasn't called me back since I found out yesterday, but I think she will soon. I just want her to know we're here.”

“I'll run it over to 'em when you're done,” Dean says absently as he hands his mother a clean plate to dry.

Dean knows he should be thinking of his grieving best friend and what he can do to console her. But he hasn't been able to get his mind off of Cas, Cas who fucked him once upon a time and jacked them off in a public park and ran out of the precal classroom like demons were chasing him the day before.

Dean would have followed him had Jo not been leaning into his shoulder soaking his shirt through with tears. The thought irritates as well as humiliates him.

Mary looks closely at her son, as if she somehow knows his mind isn't where it ought to be.

“Is there anything you want to talk about, dear?” she reaches out to touch the side of his face, her skin smelling of soap and hard water.

“What?” Dean asks too quickly.

“You may be able to fool your friends, but I'm your mother.”

“I'm fine, Ma. Just worried about Jo,” Dean says with a forced laugh. Mary doesn't join in.

“You know I love you, don't you?” she asks with a seriousness not altogether out of place so early in the morning.

“Yeah,” he whispers.

“Good. Well, you better get going, you'll miss the first bell,” is all his mother says before she takes another plate from his hands to dry.

*

Thursday, Cas is restless.

It's fourth period and the teacher is droning on about the war of 1812. He couldn't care less.

He grabs his phone from his pocket twenty minutes in and types out a short message, sending it soon after.

*

Dean is startled when his phone vibrates against his thigh, and takes it out to make sure it isn't his mother or brother texting him. He'd be lying if he said Jo's recent loss hasn't made him a little paranoid where his family is concerned.

But it isn't Sam or Mary's name that's flashing across the screen. It's the unsaved number Dean recognizes as Cas's cell.

Dean isn't surprised even though he tells himself he ought to be. He opens the message almost immediately, thinking of how Cas looked as he passed Dean and Jo by the other day. The hard, lean line of his body had been a blur as he cut a sharp swathe through the students milling aimlessly in the hallway. He'd looked so angry, his dark hair messy and his skin alarmingly pale as if he were about to be sick.

' _Wait for me after class by ur locker'_ is all the text says. It isn't a request, and Dean knows he should feel angry, resentful. He doesn't. All he feels is the draw of Cas even through the scant words on his phone, the pull of his low voice, his heedless hands and his hard, blue eyes.

Dean shoves his phone back into his pocket. He already knows what will likely happen if he does as Cas asks. But he also knows he'll do so anyway.

Predictably, an hour and a half later finds Dean waiting by his locker.

He's sweating, and unconsciously shifts his weight from one foot to the other as he periodically looks for Cas up and down the emptying hallway. Both the warning and tardy bells for the next class come and go, and Dean begins to wonder if Cas has changed his mind and will even show up to meet him at all. Just as he's seriously considering turning and getting to his next class, however, Cas appears from the south end of the hall. His hands are in his pockets and what could be a smirk is on his full lips.

“You came,” he says quietly. His blue eyes are darker than Dean remembers them being, murky like shaken sediment in water after a storm.

“What do you want?” Dean asks in a low voice, readjusting his backpack on his shoulder.

“Is your family home?” is all Cas asks, leaning against the locker with his arms crossed over his chest.

“No,” Dean says shortly. “If you're going to ask if I'll—”

“Take me to your house. I need to get the fuck out of this shit-hole before I hurt someone,” Cas interjects, speaking so frankly that Dean knows with an unnerving certainty that he isn't exaggerating.

Cas's eyes are darting to and fro, and he's tapping one of his feet on the scuffed linoleum floor. He looks almost skittish, and Dean sees for the first time in recent memory that Cas is shorter than he is by a few inches. How he's never consciously noticed before he isn't sure. Perhaps it's because Cas usually seems so imperious, so in-control. But not today. No, today Cas looks as if he's one step away from tweaking-out.

“What's wrong?” Dean asks Cas, leaning in toward him slightly before he notices and pulls back again.

“How's your friend?” Cas says coldly. He uncrosses his arms and runs a hand through his hair, not looking directly at Dean.

For a moment Dean isn't sure who he's talking about before he remembers that Cas had seen Jo and her outburst the previous day.

“Jo? She's...fine,” he answers uncertainly, not sure why Cas is asking about his best friend.

Cas closes the distance between them, his warm breath a whisper over Dean's cheek. “It's a good thing she has _you_.” The way he practically spits the words makes them sound for all the world like an insult.

Before Dean can respond to him Cas turns and begins walking down the hall, clearly expecting Dean to follow.

And god help him, Dean does.

*

This time, the drive to Dean's house feels as if it takes an eternity.

Cas is trembling in the shotgun seat of the Impala, and outside of the meticulously-cleaned window the world is passing him by in blurs of gray, white and faded green. He's picking at a loose thread in one of his fingerless gloves and isn't looking at Dean, as much as he wants to.

Everything is vast and endless in those long, suspended moments in the car; Cas has no idea what he will do once he leaves school in a few months, where he will go, if he'll go anywhere at all. He's out of cigarettes and would sell his soul for one. But he's glad to be away from the school, beyond the badly-repainted walls and indifferent teachers and stupid inspirational posters.

Dean exhales audibly beside him and Cas lets himself look over, reminds himself that soon he'll be lost in him again, cutting through him and his green eyes and good intentions like jagged glass through silk.

Cas feels sick, and suppresses the feeling as well as he's able.

The Winchester house is empty as promised when they arrive, and, if possible, is somehow cleaner and more welcoming than it was the first time Cas visited. Everything smells slightly of apples, and the living room is warm, a wall of heated air hitting Cas and Dean as they let themselves in from the chill outside.

The soft cream color of the walls hurts Cas's eyes, and he takes Dean's hand and drags him up the stairs. There's too much energy flowing through his limbs to comfortably do anything but move.

When they get up to Dean's room (also cleaned and straightened like it wasn't before, Cas can't help but notice) Cas doesn't give the quarterback a chance to talk before he turns to face him and is on him in a second more. Cas tastes mint from a piece of gum Dean's no longer chewing on his tongue.

He digs his nails into Dean's arms as he pushes him back against the wall forcefully. Their chests are pressed tightly together, and Dean is warm and firm against him under his plaid overshirt. The shelf beside them shakes with the impact of their bodies against the wall. Dean makes no move to press Cas away or question him, instead opening his mouth and going pliant in Cas's arms.

They're on the bed together soon after that. Cas straddles Dean's lap as he sucks on his tongue and then bites his lip hard enough to draw a small gasp from the other boy. Cas leans back for a second to rid himself of his t-shirt, in no way self-conscious and heedless of the cool air tracing itself over his bare skin. Dean's eyes follow his every move as if entranced.

Cas doesn't know why Dean lets him do this, why he even took Cas home a second time.

The next things to come off are Dean's faded wife-beater and green and blue plaid, and Cas sees in the soft midday light the handprint he left him that night at the park. It's just now beginning to fade a few days later. Cas places his fingers within the purple-red marks as he bows his head to suck a vicious bruise onto Dean's neck, possessive even though he knows he hasn't the right to be.

Dean is shaking between Cas's legs, and his skin is so hot, golden and flecked with the amber of his freckles. His chest heaves under Cas's fingers where he flicks a tender, pink nipple, scratches a line down the curve of a well-formed pectoral muscle.

It's not long before they're both naked and horizontal on the surface of Dean's neatly-made bed. Cas is still on top with both his and Dean's cocks in one of his hands again the way they were at the park. Dean's eyes have slid closed, and his whole body heaves with every twist of Cas's hand.

Cas prefers Dean this way, immobilized by feeling and too distracted to ask questions.

*

Dean feels as if everything is moving too quickly. Cas's teeth are scraping his neck and he smells the way he always has before, smoky and bitter with the dull undertone of cheap soap.

Cas's skin is so pale. Dean thinks of the words he saw tattooed on the Californian's back when he turned to throw his clothes over the side of the bed. Dean couldn't read them the first time and hadn't much cared to. He couldn't read them this time, either, so quickly had Cas moved. However, it's not something he's able to dwell on overlong considering what Cas is currently doing to him, to _them_.

He moans when Cas grabs a fistful of his short hair and roughly yanks his head back, saying low into his ear, “I need inside you again.”

Dean shudders at the words and brings his hands up to cup the back of Cas's head, turning his face to press their open mouths together again. It's a liberty he's never taken with the other boy before.

But Cas doesn't stop him.

Dean's hands are still on Cas's head when a few seconds later his fingers encounter a thick, curving scar marring the scalp beneath Cas's hair. It's a scar that feels as if it should have killed him, a scar that Dean imagines would feel more at home on the body of a dead person, not one who's very much alive and kissing him.

Dean draws back, his hand still covering the scar. “What's...”

Cas emphatically pushes Dean away without warning. He sinks back onto the bed, his legs falling open.

“Don't fucking ask,” Cas says before biting Dean's shoulder hard enough to break the skin.

*

Cas says nothing as he grabs the Astroglide from Dean's nightstand drawer and slicks a finger up methodically. He slips his tongue into Dean's mouth at the same time he breaches his body with the tip of a finger. One of his hands is between Dean's trembling legs and the other's holding him down by the shoulder.

“Wait—” Dean begins, even as he's writhing around Cas's finger.

“What?” Cas asks shortly. He's afraid that Dean will ask him where his scar came from.

But all Dean says is, “I—I just...is the same thing gonna happen?”

“...If by 'same thing' you mean me fucking you until we both come, yes,” Cas answers in a clipped voice. But he thinks he knows exactly what Dean is actually asking him.

He doesn't want to think of what will happen after he leaves Dean's house again, doesn't want to think of anything at all.

Dean doesn't push it, to Cas's relief. A resigned look settles into his bottle-green eyes for a second before Cas finds with his finger the bundle of nerves inside the warmth of Dean's body. Then Dean is gasping, his cock jerking and his hands scrabbling for purchase on Cas's wrists.

Before Cas fucks into Dean less than fifteen minutes later, he tries to make him turn around and get on his hands and knees again. But Dean refuses, his full lips pressed tightly together and his green eyes almost sad.

*

Cas looks surprised and then annoyed when Dean doesn't capitulate and turn over onto all fours like an obedient bitch. But he doesn't ask again.

“Whatever,” Cas mutters before he begins to ready Dean for his cock. He lines himself up at his slicked entrance as he rakes red trails with his nails down the softness of Dean's inner thighs. Cas's cock is so hot against Dean, and he shivers with the memory of how good it felt the first time.

The muscles of Cas's lean arms bunch as he supports himself over Dean. He wants to reach out and touch them, feel the movement under his fingers, the proof that Cas is warm and human and real.

“Breathe,” Cas whispers down to him, his blue eyes expressionless as he pushes past Dean's rim in one, hard thrust.

*

Dean tenses noticeably as he's penetrated, and Cas remembers somewhat suddenly that this is only his second time having sex this way.

Cas wonders briefly if he should be more gentle with him, but the thought makes something crawl down the straight line of his torso, sick and heavy.

He is anything but gentle as he slides out and slams into Dean again. He's waiting for a complaint, a request that never comes even as he knows he's not giving Dean any time to adjust, to feel good. All Cas hears are the ragged punches of Dean's exhales and the wet, filthy smack of their bodies coming together with every thrust. Cas reaches down and grasps Dean's softening cock in his free hand, his grip tight.

He gets him hard again with a few strokes and feels Dean relax around him a little. But that's all Cas gives him before he's fucking Dean even more roughly, harder than he did the time before. He feels like he's drowning in the heat of Dean's body tight around him. Cas's thrusts have become brutal.

When he catches Dean looking up at him, his mouth frozen in a shocked 'o' and his eyes wide, he looks away.

*

Dean is being filled completely, violently. Cas's cock is immense and pitiless in him, splitting him open with every bright red thrust inside.

Cas's hands are cutting into Dean's hips. The blue of his eyes is almost electric, so vivid it's disorienting in the indiscriminate haze of feeling, the blurred _pleasurepain_ pulsing through him.

Cas has all of Dean's attention. The feeling of him pushing in and out of Dean's body is so overwhelming that all he can do is stare up at the dark-haired boy soundlessly, green on blue for a few naked seconds. That's all that the Californian allows before he turns away.

Dean diverts his gaze down to where their bodies are joined together, where Cas is endlessly pumping in, out, in; a mindless rhythm.

Cas's lips are pursed, the muscled ridges of his abdomen are beaded with sweat, and a line of dark hair is matted to his forehead with perspiration.

“Cas,” Dean whispers brokenly. The other boy's eyes narrow at the sound of his name.

Cas reaches down and wraps a hand around Dean's throat as he changes the angle of his thrusts. His cock is now hitting that spot inside that he showed Dean with his fingers, but it isn't enough to distract him from the feeling of Cas's fingertips over his windpipe.

Dean begins to tremble with what might not be entirely lust anymore. He can barely breathe and it's all suddenly too close and too tight and _too much_.

He feels like he might pass out, an unfamiliar claustrophobia encompassing him. This isn't like the time in the school bathroom, where he knew he could move Cas's arm over his throat if he truly wanted to. This is frightening; Dean is being fucked too roughly to move and Cas's hand is only tightening with every thrust.

“Please, don't,” Dean manages to gasp out as he shakily lifts a hand, pressing it over Cas's.

*

At the sound of Dean's voice, small as he's never heard it and fearful, Cas freezes. His movements stutter as he looks down to see that Dean's eyes have gone partially blank, his body rigid.

Cas remembers then that he's in someone else's room in the middle of the day in Texas. Isaac is dead and Cas is fucking someone he barely knows, someone who could do so much better, and he almost just crossed a line he never would have come close to this time a year ago. He doesn't know why he wrapped his hand around Dean's throat. He just remembers wanting him to _be quiet_ , to stop saying his name.

Dean looks afraid, his green eyes vibrant with a sheen of water and his chest rising and falling rapidly.

Cas releases Dean's throat immediately, noting with relief that he hasn't bruised him. Dean is staring up at him silently. Cas is still inside him where he stilled mid-thrust.

Cas reaches out towards Dean again slowly, tentatively, not sure if it's okay to do so. But Dean makes no move to stop him. Cas lightly cups the side of Dean's freckled face, his skin soft and warm. He caresses Dean's cheek with fingertips that don't bruise, don't cut or tear now.

Cas feels devoid of the feverish energy he had only minutes ago, as if he's come crashing down from some awful trip. He sees that Dean is covered in marks _he_ left on him, ones Cas has little memory of making. Winchester's delicate mouth is stained with blood and his chest and neck are dotted with bruises.

Cas feels shame.

“I'm sorry,” he murmurs, the words foreign on his lips.

Dean doesn't answer, he just turns his face into Cas's hand, settling into the touch like a cat.

Cas grabs the Astroglide from the bedside table and squeezes a fresh dollop of the stuff between Dean's legs and on own length. Dean hisses softly at the cold sensation, his eyes still closed, but he doesn't tell Cas to stop.

When Cas slowly pushes into Dean's swollen, abused opening again a few minutes later, it's a gentle press, barely even a thrust. Dean's lips part and he moans softly once Cas is fully seated inside him again. Cas finds that the sound is one he's barely, perhaps never, heard from the quarterback in all of the things they've done together.

Dean has cried out, Dean has groaned, Dean has cursed, but this soft sigh of a moan is new.

Cas isn't quite fucking Dean now; he's sliding in and back out at a slow, almost leisurely pace. He's not ripping through Dean, not using his naive eagerness against him, but allowing the other boy to experience what it can feel like to be fucked slowly, to have someone take their time and make their partner's body open like a flower around them.

Cas swivels his hips gently, begins to alternate between deep and shallow thrusts. He's less focused on his own pleasure and more focused on Dean's for the first time since they've been spending time alone together.

Dean is whimpering loudly with every smooth, measured press in, now. His hands grip Cas's shoulders tightly. Cas doesn't make Dean let go, he lets the quarterback cling to him. He keeps the tips of his fingers on Dean's cheek as he feels the other boy's body clench around him. Soon, one of Dean's hands leaves Cas's shoulder to quickly stroke his own red, leaking cock as a blush builds high on his freckled cheeks.

Cas allows himself, for a short moment in time, to feel blessedly empty of of everything save for the smell of Dean, the feel of him, the slow, wet slide of him around his cock.

Dean comes hard with Cas's hand still on the side of his face, his body spasming and sending Cas over the edge soon after.

Cas pulls out and realizes they didn't use a condom.

He's up off of the bed soon, pulling his clothes back on quickly, methodically, already wanting to go home and drink himself to sleep. He feels as if he's bared a part of himself more vulnerable than naked flesh.

Dean stares at him for a long time before wrapping his arms around himself and standing up as well, following suit and getting dressed without a word. He asks no questions.

Neither of them is expecting the sound of the front door opening downstairs, and the deep voice of a grown man asking with surprise, “Dean-o, you here, son?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How did you feel about the last part? Thoughts and comments so very appreciated!


	8. Chapter 8

Dean is thinking of the words he finally managed to read tattooed across Cas's back when he hears his father's voice drift up the stairs. He's uncomfortable, his stomach upset with either unexpected emotion or the after-effects of sex, he isn't sure. His own semen is drying stiffly underneath the jeans he pulled on hastily when he realized Cas wasn't going to give him even a second to simply lie there and absorb what had just happened.

Now, Dean is anxious and angry with himself for not hearing the door open when his father came in. He wonders how long John has been home and prays it hasn't been more than a few seconds, that he hasn't heard anything incriminating.

Both Cas and Dean are, thankfully, fully dressed by the time they realize what's happening. But that doesn't stop a nasty thrill of fright and shock from passing through Dean's body. He's standing next to his door staring dumbly at Cas, who looks just as surprised.

“He's not supposed to be home until tomorrow!” Dean hisses lowly as he straightens the overshirt on his torso and runs a hand through his short hair, hoping it doesn't look too bad. Cas doesn't answer, his hands suspended stupidly by his sides where he just buckled his belt.

Dean opens his door, wincing at the loud creak it makes. He calls back in what he hopes is a casual tone, “Hey, Dad! Yeah, I've only been home for an hour or two. I'm...uh, I actually was helping a friend out with some car stuff. I was just about to drive him home.”

Dean's heart sinks even further into his belly when he hears his little brother call out with excitement, “Dad came and got me from school early! Mom's on her way!”

The sound of John Winchester coming up the stairs is thunderous in Dean's ears, as if every press of his boot onto the carpeted floor is as loud as a crash of lightning. Sam's much lighter footfalls accompany them. Feeling as if he might throw up, Dean leaves the comfort of his room and stands in the hallway to wait for him, smiling weakly.

“Is that why you cut class?” John asks as he steps into the upstairs hallway. Sam scampers up behind him. Their father's not in his nice business clothes the way he usually is; today he's wearing a worn Led Zeppelin t-shirt and Wrangler's jeans, his long face covered in half a day's worth of stubble.

“Sure is! We're both seniors, you know how it is,” Dean says, perhaps a little too brightly as he realizes that Cas has come to stand behind him. His breaths are audible in the strained quiet.

Dean is expecting John to get angry at him, to rip him a new one in front of Sammy and Cas the way he's had a habit of doing in the past.

John Winchester is not a man who accepts less than the best from his sons, as Dean's been made well-aware of on more than one occasion. The last time Dean skipped class and his father found out he yelled at him in front of the entirety of the football team. The ordeal is one that Dean still dreams about when he's stressed over finals or games.

Dean can feel himself tensing up as John looks closely at him, his green eyes slightly narrowed. But he's taken by surprise when his father smiles and moves to clap him on the shoulder. Dean tries not to stiffen under the touch.

Says John as he steps back, “You deserve it, son. Your mother told me about how well you played this year, that your team won more than a few games because of you. I know what it's like to be your age, anyway. Everyone's got to cut loose a little sometime, right?”

His father steps back and loops an arm around Sam's shoulder. Dean's little brother has stopped smiling and is now looking almost suspiciously at Cas, his features composed into an expression watchful and guarded.

“Right, Dad,” Dean says nervously.

“Well, don't be rude. Who's your friend?” John asks Dean sternly after a second or two of silence, his militaristic demeanor returned as easily as it slid back.

“This is Cas, he's...we have precal together,” Dean says uncertainly. “I was showing him how to change a flat using the old Dodge out front earlier. Didn't take as long as I thought it would.” He laughs awkwardly.

John nods and reaches out a hand to shake Cas's. Dean almost cries with relief when he sees that the other boy has put on his fingerless gloves again at some point, covering his explicit tattoos.

“He do a good job showin' you how?” John asks.

Cas tells him yes, and John looks as if he's a second away from questioning him more on the subject before Sam clears his throat and John releases Cas's hand.

“Well, your mom's comin' home soon, bless her heart. She took off early when she heard I was back in town ahead of schedule,” John says.

“I'll take Cas home,” Dean says quickly, hoping his father will let him.

“Dean, you're being rude again,” John chides his son. Dean blushes at how young his father makes him feel, how silly and stupid. He wants to sink into the plush carpet under his bare feet.

Cas begins to shake his head emphatically at the words, predicting where this is going. But Sam, kind as he is, agrees with John, gesturing towards them.

“Yeah, why doesn't your friend stay for dinner?”

*

Cas is sitting beside Dean's younger brother, Sam, and across from Dean himself at the polished oak dinner table. A full plate of salad, spaghetti, and homemade garlic bread is in front of him, and it smells perfectly well-seasoned, a testament to Mary Winchester's prowess in the kitchen.

He wants desperately to leave, but can't now. They've all been at the table for about five minutes, having waited patiently as Mary doled out each of their plates individually, varying the portion sizes to fit the person served. Cas has the most food on his plate by far, and he wonders if he looks as if he needs fattening up that badly.

Cas can't believe that he's actually eating dinner with the Winchester family, that his luck was _that_ colossally shitty he managed to get roped into this awkward debacle. More than that, he can't believe that they seem as perfect as he imagined them to be upon first seeing their immaculate, suburban house. Mary is blonde and welcoming, Sam is clever and polite, John is masculine and commanding, and Dean...well, Dean looks as if he's on the verge of passing out. The quarterback is quiet around his father, Cas has noticed, passive and almost diminutive. While Sam seems comfortable around John Winchester, Dean has become practically a different person around him.

Cas doesn't want to be here. He wants to go back to his room at his aunt's and drink half a bottle of something, anything. These people don't know him, and he doesn't belong here, no matter how nice they are to him. He doesn't have a place with this family. All he's done is almost strangle their golden-boy of a son.

Sam is talking about a science project and Cas is so busy pretending to politely listen that he doesn't realize it when Sam has stopped talking and Mary turns to address him.

“Cas, is that short for something?” she has a soft smile on her face, and Cas sees then how much Dean takes after her. They have the same facial shape, the same almond-shaped eyes.

“Castiel,” Cas says immediately. He's not surprised when everyone at the table looks at him strangely.

“Castiel? Really?” Dean asks with disbelief.

“My mom was on drugs when she had me,” Cas says without inflection, watching Mary's smile fade as she comprehends that he isn't joking. But, not willing to let that be the end of their conversation, she asks, “Dean says you're from California? How do you like it here?”

“It's...uh, well, you can drive a lot faster here,” Cas says uncertainly. He doesn't know how to deal with polite interest. Anger, he can react to. Accusation, hatred, disgust, resentment. All of those things he's well-versed in himself and can respond in kind.

But here, he is lost.

*

Dean doesn't know how he feels right this second, sitting across from Cas with the rest of his family pretending it makes total sense.

He's been trying to pay attention and contribute to the conversation. But all he can think about is what happened when he and Cas had sex not an hour earlier and the way Cas looked at him as he touched his face. Dean still doesn't know what he saw in Cas's eyes then, if it was sorrow, affection, remorse. It was as if he was a different person for a few minutes. Until it was over, at least, and he pulled away. Then he was as distant and inscrutable as before.

Dean doesn't want to sit across from him much longer. He wants to go up to his room and be alone. He wants to _think_ without Cas mucking it up. He wants to feel okay.

But here he is, looking up periodically and catching Cas doing something as normal as eating. Cas makes perfectly rolled bites of noodles and sauce on his fork before placing them in his mouth almost daintily, and eats bits of bread carefully over his napkin. It's unexpected, Cas eating so neatly, so precisely. Dean isn't sure why, but that isn't what he expected from the dark-haired boy.

“Did your lip piercing hurt?” Sam asks Cas through a mouthful of salad, leaning forward to hear his answer.

“I don't remember, so probably not,” Cas says to him before starting on another careful bite of buttery bread.

“Your parents let you do that sort of thing?” John asks somewhat bluntly. Dean looks at Cas quickly, unsure if he'll react the way Dean is used to him reacting, with anger.

“My parents had better things to do than watch me,” Cas says, his voice tired. Dean isn't expecting that, and is thankful when John seems to realize how insensitive his question was and says nothing more on the subject.

Cas sets his fork down and sets his napkin on the table after that, as if he's lost his appetite.

*

Mary insists on sending Cas home with leftovers piled high on a paper plate, and tells him that he can come over any time. She hugs him before he can stop her, wrapping her soft arms around him. She smells of flowers and hairspray, and for a second Cas's head is pillowed on her blonde hair as she holds him.

He's reminded of Isaac's mother, then, someone who loved him at one point, who said the very words Mary just has and who hugged him like this before he left to walk home in the dark.

It makes Cas want to cry, and he pulls away from Mary as if her touch burns. He thanks her hurriedly and grabs the plate off of the table next to her, wanting to get the hell out of this house.

He's about to let himself out when he hears Dean say his name. Cas turns to face him.

“What?” he snaps with venom, noting how Dean recoils a little.

“I just...let me take you home. Please?” Dean looks so sincere it's like a dart in Cas's chest.

He wants to say no, but finds that he isn't able to. All the reasons he wanted to get away from Dean earlier seem to have left him now, and all he wants to do is steal Dean's warmth for just a little while longer.

It's frightening how much he wants to.

*

The drive to Cas's aunt's is mostly silent, and Cas is staring out the window quietly, his arms tight around his torso as if he's cold.

“Sorry about my folks...” Dean says cautiously, not sure if Cas wants to talk to him or not.

“It's fine,” Cas says shortly, not looking at him.

“My mom tends to pull out the whole welcome wagon when I have friends over,” Dean says with a rueful half-smile.

“I gathered,” Cas says dryly, finally looking over at Dean for a second. He's paler than he was earlier.

“I like your name, by the way,” Dean says without thinking. “I've never heard it before.”

Cas looks toward the window again, not acknowledging Dean's statement.

“What's uh...what's the tattoo on your back mean?” Dean asks casually, not thinking much of the question. “It's Spanish, right? Looks cool—”

“Pull over,” Cas interrupts, staring stonily ahead.

“What?” Dean asks in disbelief, not sure why Cas would ask him to.

“Pull the fuck over,” Cas says again.

“Why?” Dean asks.

Instead of answering him, Cas opens the door while the car is still moving. Dean curses and swerves to the side, slamming on the brakes as quickly as he can, thanking god there was no one behind them on the residential road he was taking. He reaches out for Cas, trying to keep him in the car, but the other boy throws him off roughly before undoing his seat belt and getting out of the car. He leaves the plate of leftovers behind him in his empty seat.

Dean hurriedly turns the car off and gets out to follow him, confused and irritated.

“What the fuck is your problem?” he asks angrily. “You're the one who texts me. You're the one who wants to see me, so I fucking do! Then you pull _this_ shit with me?!”

But Cas is still walking away, his dark head bowed.

Dean doesn't know what he's said or done that's made Cas decide that walking almost five miles in the cold is preferable to riding with him. But he doesn't want the night to end this way, as annoyed and baffled as he is with the other boy.

“Cas! Come on, it's cold!” Dean says helplessly.

At that, Cas turns around to face him, his face mottled red and white with rage.

“Fuck you! You think one meal with your family gives you the right to try and get to _know me_?” Cas says furiously, his voice broken. “You don't know the first fucking thing! Just because I've fucked you doesn't mean I give a shit about you, and you're sure as _fuck_ not my friend.” By the end, his voice has gone so quiet that Dean can barely hear him.

Dean doesn't know what to say as they stand there for a few seconds. The words hurt, more than he will ever admit to anyone, and he feels his heart plummet as Cas scoffs at his silence and walks out into the night, soon invisible in the navy blue dark.

*

The walk home takes the better part of half an hour, and when Cas finally makes it all he wants to do is sleep. He lets himself into his aunt's house and takes a long shower, staying beneath the water until it's gone cold and his fingers are pruned.

He gets out and towels himself off, not looking at himself in the mirror before exiting the bathroom and going into his room. He sits on the edge of his bed and closes eyes that ache.

He reaches back and touches the tattoo on his shoulder, knowing where it is without looking, feeling the slightly raised letters as he has many times before. He asked the tattooist to go deep when he got it done, to make it hurt, to make it dark.

_Una alma gemela nunca muere.*_

Cas wishes Dean hadn't asked about it, that he'd just driven him home and said goodnight.

When he falls into a fitful sleep not an hour later, Cas dreams of Isaac, of his almond-brown skin, his dark hair, his soft lips as they shape words Cas can't forgive him for, not now and not ever. Isaac smiles at him, reaches out to touch him, to kiss him. Cas leans into the embrace, Isaac's mouth on his tasting of coffee and sleep. But when Cas pulls away he realizes he's been kissing Dean, that he's lying in bed with Dean and likes Dean, and wants to kiss him again.

He wakes up drenched in sweat, clutching at his own chest as he whispers shakily, “I'm not going anywhere, I'm not going anywhere.”

It's then that the tears come.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *A soulmate never dies.
> 
> Please tell me what you're thinking of the character development!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's more than one way to be alone.

When Dean wakes up to a garish, persimmon sunrise the following morning he knows he won't be going to school.

He isn't sick, but he's gotten barely any sleep in the eight hours spent lying in bed after his failed attempt to drive Cas home. He'd debated internally whether he should follow the guy a ways down the road and make sure he made it home safely. But he hadn't, and in the end simply forced himself to turn around and get back in the car. He'd left the plate Mary tried to send Cas home with on the side of the road, not wanting his family to suspect that anything had happened.

Dean can hear his mother breathing on the other end of the line, can practically see her holding the nurse's station phone in one hand and her clipboard in the other. He's spinning a lie about a sore throat, a low-grade fever, and beyond Mary's even exhalations are the muffled noises of people speaking, of sensible nurses' shoes squeaking on linoleum and the muted beep of various hospital machines recording vital signs.

When she hangs up Dean turns his phone off, staring up at the ceiling above his head and the one or two fine cracks that run through it.

It's Friday, and for the first time in months Dean has no football game to psyche himself out for.

Sam and John are spending the day together at the batting cages and parks on the other side of town, and Dean's thankful that they left too early for him to tell either of them goodbye that morning. He knows they'll get home later in the evening, after school has already let out and Dean has a reason to be home. Dean has no illusions that John will believe him if he has to explain his absence and says he was too sick to go to school. John doesn't believe Dean even when he tells the truth.

Dean sighs harshly and pulls the sheets over his head, breathing in deeply only to realize too late what a mistake that is. He can smell Cas in the weave of the fabric.

Though Dean doesn't want to so much as be in the same room as the Californian, he wonders if he should have just gone to school and skipped his precalculus class. After all, he doesn't know if Cas even plans to go to school himself; his attendance record is far from stellar.

 _You're sure as_ fuck _not my friend._

Dean has to stop himself from replaying the events of the previous evening in his mind's eye for the hundredth time, has to stop himself trying to discover amid the meaningless words and missed signals what he did to deserve the things Cas said to him.

Dean watches a beam of light dance on his wall from the growing brightness of the day, and realizes that he's never once seen Cas truly smile.

*

Cas tells himself he isn't surprised when Winchester is absent from precal on Friday.

He sits through the class motionlessly, his pocketknife heavy in his pocket as he silently watches the teacher text someone. She smiles to herself and sets her phone on the desk while she reaches down to retrieve something from one of its drawers. Her phone case is ugly, neon pink with a pastel-blue star adorning its center. It looks like something any one of the girls Cas's age would buy from a Claire's or a rip-off designer vendor at the nearby mall. For a second Cas hates her and the cheap thrills she distracts herself with while the restless students grow steadily louder around her.

Nearby, Cas sees that Jo has turned to her left to speak to the girl nearest her in Dean's absence. She looks much the way she did before, Cas notices, her long hair back to its usual neat styling and her eyes dry, as if the events of a few days before never occurred. The sight of it makes Cas want to approach Jo and ask if it means anything at all to her that someone is dead and the world continues to spin as if they didn't exist in the first place.

He feels his muscles tensing painfully and wraps his arms around his own shoulders.

He doesn't know why he's still sitting in this laughable excuse for a learning environment. He could leave and the teacher probably wouldn't be any the wiser. She's already taken attendance for the day, and Cas knows he could slip out unnoticed.

But he doesn't.

When class ends and Cas is gathering his things, he feels a bitter pang of disappointment that he chooses not to examine.

 

That evening, not long after Cas has made the short walk from school to his aunt's and set his bag down in his room, he encounters his guardian herself.

Cas isn't expecting his aunt to follow him into the kitchen as he opens the outdated fridge and looks for something to eat. He can feel her staring at him. When he turns around, a package of generic-brand lunch meat in one hand and half a loaf of bread in the other, he finds that she's looking at him intently. Her brown eyes are wide and her hands are splayed on her generous hips.

“Do you need me to move your chair again?” Cas asks her at last, remembering the last time his aunt spoke to him.

“Your birthday was last week,” she says suddenly, as if she's been waiting for Cas to say it but can't restrain herself any longer.

Cas looks at a stain on the ugly yellow counter top. “I know.”

“I forgot,” she sounds regretful. Cas wonders why she insists on wearing bright floral nightgowns when there's no one around to see them.

He sets the bread down next to the fridge and shoves the lunch meat back into the refrigerator drawer from which it came. “That's fine.”

“You didn't want to do anything to celebrate it?”

Cas quietly shuts the refrigerator door. “I don't like birthdays,” he mumbles, wondering why she gives a damn in the first place. This is likely her way of telling him that he needs to leave immediately after graduation now that he's legal. He wants a cigarette. It's been over twenty-four hours since he last had one and he has a headache.

Cas's aunt smiles awkwardly at him, holding out a crumpled fifty-dollar bill. “If you...want to have a friend or two over, you can.”

Cas can tell by the careful way she says the words that she doubts he has any friends at all.

She isn't wrong. The previous year Cas celebrated his seventeenth birthday alone; he'd gone to Isaac's grave and drank cheap white rum until he threw up. He'd almost gotten himself arrested. He knows he would have been had the cop who spotted him not taken pity on him and his drunken vigil.

Cas blinks. His aunt is still standing in front of him. He thanks her before walking back down the hall to his room, the money already stored in one of his pockets. He sits on the edge of his bed, distantly feeling the pangs in his stomach from the day-old hunger he's been ignoring. He pulls out his phone and checks it, knowing already that he hasn't gotten any new messages or calls.

His boots are badly scuffed where his feet are planted on the dirty carpet, and Cas wonders why he's bothered keeping them for so long. They look like shit. But then again, he could ask himself the same question regarding any of his belongings. They're all used, hole-ridden, worn-out and fucked-up and patched with tape or safety pins.

Cas can't imagine Sam or Dean Winchester wearing shoes so scuffed.

Though Cas had known Dean wouldn't come, even in the last few minutes of the class period Cas had been waiting for him, watching for his tall frame and sand-colored hair and stupid flannel shirts.

Cas reaches down and begins unlacing one of his boots, his hand shaking.

*

Dean's on the phone with Jo for almost an hour Saturday morning while his mother sleeps in for the first time in two weeks. Sam and John are out back playing a game of catch and he has the kitchen to himself.

Since Ellen's mother's passing, things have been tense in the Harvelle household.

Jo's mostly alright for now, she reckons frankly, but Ellen is far from okay. The funeral is the following Tuesday and Ellen's been up for almost two days straight, killing herself over the most minute details of the entire process. Bill, Jo's father, is trying to get his wife to accept help from concerned family and friends. But the bartender apparently isn't having any of it.

“Well, that sounds like your mom,” Dean sighs as he rubs a hand over his face. He's sitting at the kitchen table with the phone pressed to his ear. Distantly he can hear Sam and his father talking to one another outside.

 _“She's gonna crash so hard after the service,”_ Jo says with concern.

“Oh yeah,” Dean agrees immediately. “Just make sure you bring some water and a blanket for the car ride home.”

Jo laughs softly at that, _“I will.”_

“Well, let me know how your ma liked the pie and the casserole,” Dean says at last, when Jo seems as if she's all talked-out.

 _“Will do,”_ she says ruefully. _“Tell your mom thanks. Love you.”_

“Love you, too, kid,” he says, hanging up before Jo can fire back that she's two months and three days older than he is, thank you very much.

As he's putting the home phone back onto its cradle Sam and John come inside from the backyard, their cheeks flushed from the cold. Dean is surprised to remember that it's only a few weeks until December. He suddenly wishes he'd gotten dressed at the sight of his brother and father bundled up in layers of flannel and leather. He feels out of place in his worn pajama pants and t-shirt even though he's indoors.

“Hey there, son,” John says to Dean, one of his arms around Sam's shoulders again. Dean is struck by how alike Sam and his father are beginning to look now that Sam's getting older. They have the same wide nose, the same long, oval chin, even the same slightly-bucked front teeth.

“Hey, Dad,” Dean says, tucking his bare feet under the chair.

“You have any plans today?” John inquires. He's not looking directly at his son as he asks the question.

“Yeah,” Dean says immediately, drawing the corners of his mouth up and hoping it passes for a smile. “I was thinkin' I'd go hang out with Michael and the gang tonight. There's a party across town.”

He's lying. Jo and Michael have a date that evening and Gordon's out of town visiting his mother's extended family. Dean doesn't have anything planned for the weekend besides doing a few, much-needed loads of laundry and finishing an essay for his English class.

Now he'll have to dress nicely as if he's going out and drive around for a few hours. Dean wants to smack himself in the face at the thought. He could have just as easily told his father he was having a night-in instead and get the same response from John that he's getting now: a polite nod and distracted 'mhmm'.

Sam looks as if he knows Dean isn't telling the truth. Dean stands up and leaves the room with a smile that feels like a grimace.

 

A couple of hours later finds Dean sitting in the Impala where it's idling in front of the kiddie park he and Cas met up at the week before. He's wearing a dark red button-down that brings out his eyes, and he sprayed himself with the most expensive cologne he owns before he left. He bid John and Sam goodbye with a wave after Mary pulled him close to her chest and gave him a peck on the cheek. He'd wanted to stay wrapped in his mother's arms like a child, but hadn't.

There's a dull ache in the center of his chest.

He doesn't know why he cares so much, why he's dressed to the nines for a lie he didn't have to tell.

At times Dean feels trapped beneath the weight of all that he isn't.

He turns the car off and lays his head down on the steering wheel, figuring he may as well get some sleep while he's here.

*

Sunday afternoon Cas's father texts him, an unpleasant surprise. Cas hasn't heard from Chuck in months.

The message says only, _“Yr sister lost ur giutar, srry”_

Cas knows exactly what that means; he's heard the same excuse countless times before from both Chuck and Anna. They 'lost' Cas's skateboard, the entirety of his CD collection, the brand-new iPad Isaac saved up for for months to give Cas on his sixteenth birthday.

For a minute, Cas considers calling Chuck back to ask how much they got for it, but in the end simply deletes the message. He reminds himself that he left his guitar at his family's rat's nest of a home knowing what would likely become of it. If anything, he reasons with himself, he should be amazed they didn't sell it sooner. He's been gone just over four months, that's an almost sentimental amount of time where his family and their habits are concerned.

He looks down at his phone's inbox. The only other message there is an old text from Dean.

Cas decides to look for the fake ID he knows he brought with him to Texas.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come soon! =) I have the draft of the next chapter written, it just needs some more editing.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there's some Mary love in this chapter. I hope I did her justice, I like writing her so far.

The month of November crests, ends, and spirals into that of December with little fanfare. As the days grow shorter and the skies bleed out into blank palettes of white and gray, the true breath of winter, somber and hushed, creeps slowly in.

Dean's teachers have started buckling down to prepare the students for their end-of-semester exams in less than three weeks. He's glad, as he always is this time of year, that football season is over so he can focus on his schoolwork.

It's surreal to think of this moment in his life as what it is: his last December spent within the walls of a high school. With each passing day Dean is brought closer to not only the end of the semester, but also to the inevitable conclusion of the class he shares with Cas.

Though Cas continues to station himself mutely at the front of the room while Dean sits beside Jo in their usual spot near the back, Dean catches himself checking his phone for texts that never come, or looking absently at the back of Cas's dark head. It makes him think of the scar he once felt behind the other boy's ear.

The silence between them stretches through cold days which fall into the easy groove of passing weeks, and Dean begins to understand that Cas doesn't intend to speak to him again.

He makes himself ask Jo about her and Michael's dates, talks to her about Sam and the nightmares the kid's been having over his impending exams, relays stupid jokes he's heard from commercials. Jo looks at Dean strangely a few times, and he knows by her expression he's talked for too long or about something too unimportant, but she doesn't ask what's bothering him, knowing him well enough to correctly guess that he won't say.

John leaves for another business trip on the fifth, and Dean knows he'll only see his father once or twice before his and Sam's Christmas break begins.

When Michael and Jo gradually begin spending almost every evening together after school, Dean ends up spending most of his time with Sam or Gordon.

Around his brother things are as they've always been, and when Dean hangs out with Sam they usually end up watching Pinky and the Brain upstairs with soda and chips, or they study silently together for their respective tests. Dean and Gordon's activities, on the other hand, are rarely so innocent; they've recently gotten into the habit of giving Gordon's older brother twenty bucks to get him to buy them beer before they drive across town to parties populated by kids from other high schools. Within a few weeks Dean has a garbage bag's worth of cans and bottles hidden in the Impala's trunk.

During the second week of December, at one such house party, Dean and Gordon encounter a familiar face.

Ruby doesn't look surprised to see Dean, and barely even acknowledges Gordon, who takes the hint and walks away to mingle elsewhere in the crowded living room. Ruby's long hair is prettily curled and her shimmering silver top leaves little to the imagination. It isn't long before she's straddling Dean's lap on the love-seat as around them people dance raunchily. Though Dean doesn't know Ruby particularly well, he can tell she's probably tipsy by the way she talks to him. Her usually terse voice is now somewhat drawn and slurred. She's warm on Dean's lap, and he has his arms around the small of her back so that she doesn't fall back.

“You wanna go upstairs?” she asks lowly, her eyes circled with smudged, black liner. “You were fun.”

Dean knows he should tell Ruby no, but he's been drinking for two hours and he can see Gordon a few yards away. His friend's giving him an enthusiastic thumbs-up at the sight of Ruby on top of him.

When Ruby takes his hand, Dean allows her to lead him up the stairs.

The room they enter has no lock on its door, and there's an outdated desktop computer on a desk pushed into a corner. Some blonde pop starlet has been set as its screen saver. The bed Ruby pushes Dean onto is unmade and strewn with someone else's clothing, and though the door is shut Dean knows there's no guarantee they won't be walked-in on.

He's quiet as he slips Ruby's shirt up, cupping her breasts gently. But she bats his hands away, and Dean follows her lead and rucks her denim skirt around her compact waist. She pulls a condom from her back pocket and pushes it toward him.

When he slips into her she wraps her arms around his shoulders, her long nails digging into his skin. She's hot and slick around his cock and it's the only thing keeping him hard.

Dean's not thinking of Ruby as he fucks her, he's thinking of every time he's checked out a girl while with his friends, the way he pretends to look them up and down, the waggle of his eyebrows a habitual attachment he doesn't even have to consciously execute anymore. He's thinking of the day it was announced he'd made quarterback junior year, how the relief on John's face had been palpable, as if being good at sports meant Dean couldn't also be gay. He's thinking of the time Michael wrote on a bathroom stall 'Danny Smith likes cock' with permanent marker, a malicious glint in his pale eyes. Dean's thinking of how he stupidly told himself he wouldn't have sex with another girl after the awkward encounter with Hester, how drained the falsehood of it had left him.

But, mostly, Dean's thinking of Cas as Ruby presses a lipgloss-slick kiss to his shoulder.

Cas had known who Dean was from the beginning, somehow. He had guiltlessly shared with him the same proclivity.

Cas had wanted him, had _taken_ him.

For a few, stolen hours, Dean had been himself.

His breath hitches in his chest as Ruby moans into his ear.

After he and Ruby have finished, Dean feels like his skin is crawling. He's also disappointingly sober, as if the alcohol he's spent the past few hours imbibing has been burned from his blood.

He asks Ruby if she needs a ride home and she tells him she came with a friend, smiling lasciviously at him and striding perkily away before he can respond. As Dean watches her disappear into the crowd, he finds he somehow feels alone even in this house packed with people.

Shaking his head, Dean pulls out his cell to call Gordon, telling him to meet him outside by the Impala so they can go home.

Dean arrives at his house almost an hour later, having dropped Gordon off and stopping by a gas station to buy himself an energy drink for the following morning. When he steps inside he's greeted by his mother in the darkened kitchen where she's clearing up dishes from the dinner he wasn't there for.

“Hey, sweetie,” Mary says tiredly as she sees him. It's not even eleven-thirty yet, and Dean is surprised he's home so early. He thought he'd been at the party for hours, but it had just been a painful ninety minutes, he guesses.

Dean feels something welling beneath his ribs, painful and heavy.

“Mom,” Dean says as he sits down at the dining room table, his heart pounding.

Mary mirrors him and sits down across from him.

“What is it?” she asks calmly. Dean notices a brown stain on the left breast of her blue scrubs.

“I...”

 _I like guys_. _I like one in particular. I never bring girls home to meet you because I don't date them._

It's all on the tip of Dean's tongue; he's one second away from saying it. His mother is looking at him expectantly, her eyes half-lidded from the long day she's just gotten home from. Her blonde hair is tied up in a ridiculous sequined scrunchy Dean got her for Mother's Day when he was ten.

He knows then that he can't tell her now. Not when it's half-past eleven on a Friday night and his mom has someone else's puke on her chest and a dirty soup bowl in one of her hands.

“I think I'm failing math,” Dean says at last.

*

It's a cold, mid-December evening when Cas bumps into none other than Mary Winchester.

He's standing just inside the HEB walking distance from his aunt's after school when he spots her. She's pushing a cart full of vegetables in green produce bags and has her cellphone pressed to her ear.

Cas is surprised when the woman not only recognizes him, but greets him with a little wave after ending her phone call and approaching him in an insouciant manner, as if she and Cas are casual acquaintances.

“Hello, Castiel. Keeping warm?”

The only reason Cas is in the grocery store is because he's wearing nothing more than t-shirt over a wife-beater on a forty-five degree day. He's wishing now that he hadn't come in at all and had instead sucked it up and finished the walk to his aunt's in one freezing stretch. He wonders if he can simply nod politely in response to Mrs. Winchester's question and side-step her.

Dean's mother is wearing a coat and scarf that are heavy on her willowy frame, and she's lookng at him as if she's actually waiting for him to answer. It's then that Cas knows he can't cut this encounter short without speaking to her.

“Yeah, I am,” Cas says belatedly. He can see her eyes skimming sympathetically over his bare arms and has to stop himself from crossing them defensively. He's slept under parked cars to keep himself warm, he doesn't need pity from someone buying organic apples.

“How have you been since we had you over?” Mrs. Winchester asks with what sounds like genuine interest. Her hands are splayed loosely on the metal handle of her teeming cart.

Cas can see two security guards speaking to one another behind her, and from somewhere further into the store he can hear the tinny sounds of rap music blasting from someone's cellphone speaker. This part of town has an unfavorable reputation, and Dean's mother is noticeably out of place.

“Why are you _here_?” Cas asks her bluntly instead of answering her question.

Mary gives a small, awkward smile at Cas's words, “I work at the hospital down the street.”

Cas nods, not having known Mrs. Winchester worked in the medical field.

“Well, I have to get going, but you're welcome to come see us again,” she tells him after a silent minute passes between them. She lightly brushes a hand over Cas's arm and smiles at him.

Cas knows he looks like shit, that the nose he can no longer feel is red and running, that his exposed arms are blue under the fluorescents of the store. Mrs. Winchester likely just feels sorry for the boy without a coat that she thinks her son is still friends with, but these things don't make the warmth of her words cut any less.

Though he doesn't walk her to her car, Cas watches from behind the smudged glass of the automated double doors as Mary pushes her cart across the parking lot to a silver sedan. He makes sure she and her groceries are safely inside it before he finishes the short journey to his aunt's. The wind picks up suddenly as he walks, and by the time he arrives at the familiar, peeling front door he's shivering again.

 

A couple of hours later Cas gets a headache that won't go away.

He rinses his face with cool water over the rusted aperture of the bathroom sink, rubbing his hands over closed eyes as behind them his blood throbs painfully through his temples.

He straightens back up in a few minutes, water dripping onto his bare chest from his damp face. The bathroom window to his left has been badly damaged by a bullet hole and shoddily duct-taped, the network of fissures radiating outward resembling a spider's web. A breath of winter wind blows gently through the small cracks the silver doesn't cover, displacing the blue curtains hanging limply over the glass. They're the same color as the water-damaged linoleum floor that still shows up in Cas's dreams, even though he left the house in California months ago.

Whether it was robin's egg blue, or perhaps a badly-faded turquoise, Cas was never sure.

Cas closes his eyes and wonders how his sister's doing. He tries to call to mind the way she looked when he left, her thin features, the blue eyes they share huge over her hollow cheeks. But he can't. When he thinks of Anna, he finds himself picturing her the way she was as a child, when they were both children. In Cas's mind, Anna is still the seven year old who stuck her hand down into a toilet bowl, frantically trying to get back the heroin a five year-old Cas had flushed.

That night had been the first and last time Cas ever attempted to come between his father and the stash he kept in the cabinet above the toilet. Cas had been so hungry, had thought that maybe if Chuck was no longer stoned he might remember to feed his children.

This had been before Anna became a user herself.

Chuck had caught them and backhanded his son so hard across the face that Cas didn't regain consciousness until almost an hour later. His first recollection after was that of dusty blue beneath his hot, swollen cheek. He still has damage to his right eye from the force of his father's blow.

Cas is pulled from the memory and his thoughts of Anna by the sight of a dead ladybug on the edge of the sink. Its shell has faded to a dull orange.

Cas feels soda he drank hours earlier rising in his throat as he looks at its infinitesimal body, and he swipes it off the cracked porcelain into the nearby trashcan.

*

It's the last Friday before exams when Cas comes to their precalculus class drunk.

Dean can literally _smell_ the alcohol on him; the scent wafts from him in waves as soon as he enters the room a few minutes after the tardy bell. Cas's striking eyes are bloodshot and his face is pale save for a deep red flush that creeps over the jut of his cheekbones. Dean catches glimpses of Cas's skin through the evidence of past silverfish infestations defacing his thin gray t-shirt.

Dean has no idea how Cas even came to school in the state he's in. He's walking with an unsteady, shuffling gait wholly at odds with the clipped control he usually moves with. His backpack is hanging awkwardly from his shoulder, the weight of it pendulous-looking. Dean assumes that whatever Cas is drinking is in the patched, green Jansport.

When Dean realizes that Cas is walking toward him he tries fruitlessly to make himself look down at his desk and the blank notebook he placed there only a few minutes earlier. He hasn't taken a pen out yet and knows he should if he wants to successfully pretend to be absorbed in reviewing. But he feels frozen in place, not unlike the way he did the first time he caught Cas looking his way ( _was it only months ago?_ ).

The expression Cas wore then isn't much different from the one he sports now. The only real difference Dean can see is that Cas looks gutted as he makes his clumsy way down the aisle. His mouth is devoid of its usual indecipherable smirk and his eyes are blank even as they lock onto Dean with an unnerving amount of focus.

One of Cas's hands is curled into a fist by his side, and Dean finds he can't look away from the lean muscles of Cas's forearm, the pull of the tendons beneath his skin. His knuckles are white with how tightly his fingers have clenched themselves. Dean keeps his eyes there, on the scars that adorn Cas's finger joints.

Cas sits in the desk across from Dean's. The teacher on the other side of the room hasn't spared him so much as a glance since he arrived. Dean guesses that this is likely how he's gotten through the day with his intoxication unnoticed, by the grace of uncaring teachers and oblivious students.

Cas is almost completely still now that he's seated. His blue eyes are fixed on Dean with the intensity of someone trying to divine omens from tea leaves or well water.

Dean wishes Jo wasn't volunteering in the library on the other side of school. He needs a reason not to look at Cas.

Dean isn't sure what Cas thinks he sees as he stares at him. He wonders with discomfort if he's got something on his face or a stain on his shirt from lunch.

“What are you doing back here?” Dean gestures to Cas's desk, not sure if speaking will break the spell Cas seems to be under.

But Cas says nothing, and Dean looks down at the blank sheet of notebook paper in front of him again. He wants to move seats while at the same time he wishes Cas had answered him. His stomach is churning like meat on a spit inside his abdomen.

He wants to ask Cas why he's drunk in a math class at 2pm, why he yelled at him for no discernible reason after jumping from a moving car, why he's always angry.

Making a quick decision, Dean hastily picks up his things and rises from his seat to move a few desks up, intending to leave Cas and his disconcerting drunken gaze behind him. But it's then that Cas speaks.

“Dean.”

The sound of his own name startles Dean. He stills where he's now standing in front of the other boy and looks down at him. The corner of the journal digging into one of his palms is forgotten as he does.

He can't remember Cas ever calling him by his first name.

Cas's face is tilted up toward him now. Dean's dragged forcefully back to a memory of the last time they fucked.

Cas's eyes are filled with a weary softness where before Dean has only ever seen irritation or indifference. He looks lost as he stares up at Dean, the rims of his eyes such a dark red Dean wonders if he's been crying as well as drinking. But Dean can't imagine Cas doing anything of the sort.

“Just keep your fucking head down,” Dean murmurs before he moves his things a few desks up.

Cas doesn't follow him.

*

Cas knows it'll be a miracle if he can make it through the day without getting reported to a teacher, but he doesn't much care. If he truly gave a shit about himself or his senior year he wouldn't have bothered coming to school at all after the first three shots he took in his bedroom that morning.

He'd wanted to see Dean before the break and was drunk enough to be honest with himself about that fact. He's still drunk enough now that the quarterback's rejection is barely a blip on the sliding scale of one to absolute shit his life currently is.

When class ends Cas begins packing his things up at a leisurely pace, knowing he isn't likely to make it to his next class on time anyway. His backpack falls loudly to the floor after he under-reaches for it and merely displaces it, his hands clumsy in his current state. Cas hears the hollow blip of plastic as the bottle his bag holds makes contact with the floor through the canvas. His papers and pens are scattered every which way in the aisle now, and he curses idly as he bends to gather them.

He's not expecting Dean to kneel down beside him on the floor. But he does, wordlessly helping Cas recover the half-chewed pencils he never sharpens or uses, the books with bent spines he's stolen from libraries, the crumpled bits of paper flung from the front section of his backpack.

Dean's eyes are downcast and his lips pressed into a thin line, as if he's keeping himself from speaking with difficulty.

Cas knows anyone else would say thank you as Dean hands him a pen, that Dean _deserves_ a thank you, even. But he looks down at his bag instead, pretending he doesn't notice when Dean stands up.

Cas watches him from where he's still on the floor, waiting to see if Dean will look back at him before he leaves the classroom.

He doesn't.

Cas glances at his backpack for a moment before deciding it's time for a trip to a closed stall in the men's room where he can take out the bottle again. He's got a few more hours of school and a third of a bottle to kill.

 

That night Cas lies awake in his bed for hours, his day-long buzz finally worn off as a song he wrote almost two years ago echoes through the cloudy banks of his mind.

At one time he'd had dozens of grainy soundbytes of his songs stored on his phone because he couldn't read music and playing by ear was the only way he'd ever known how to do it. He'd had notebooks filled with lyrics he'd jotted down in class while he was supposed to be listening to teachers tell him he could go to the nearby community college or what jobs would still be available to him should he be charged with a felony.

Isaac was and is still the only person who ever heard Cas play, the only one who knew the guitar that his family sold for heroin money used to be Cas's prized possession.

Cas misses the sky-blue calm that used to wash over him as he strummed nonsense melodies and short minuets while Isaac listened, his head pillowed on one of Cas' thighs as he tapped a thumb on his chest to the beat. He misses the stray dogs he and Isaac used to feed on the way home from school, the dopey joy on their long, canine faces as they ran off with scraps of public school lunches between their teeth. Cas misses the ladybugs that crawled over the slope of Isaac's nose, how he'd always known when the other boy was coming because of the flurry of red and black bugs that preceded his arrival.

 _Gone now_ , he whispers aloud, all of it gone, dissolved and shot hot into his father's mottled veins. Gone like so much else from Cas's life in California.

When Cas drifts off at last, he dreams of Dean, standing beneath the almost blinding white of stadium lights though he's not dressed to play football. No, he's wearing a red and blue plaid shirt and jeans and smiling broadly, his green eyes bright with elation.

Cas pretends that Dean's smile is for him, and waves.

*

The following afternoon Dean hears the doorbell ring and makes no move to leave the comfort of his bedroom to see who it is. He's sitting tensely at his desk, still wet from a recent shower with his clothes sticking to his skin and his hair dripping trails of water down the column of his spine.

It's Saturday, Sam's home and can get the door, Dean internally grouses to himself.

He's attempting to reroute his wandering attention span long enough to review for his Earth science class and can't seem to make it happen. He'd hoped the shower he took not ten minutes ago would help him relax enough to get something done, but thus far it hasn't proven effective. Dean's usual ADD-induced restlessness is about five times worse when he's stressed, and finals have always been a reliable source of tension for him. He's currently re-reading the same sentence over and over, the pulsing seeds of a headache slowly flowering in the base of his skull.

Though Dean has no desire to talk to anyone, when his little brother knocks on his door a minute or two later he's relieved to have a reason to turn away from his textbook.

He stands with a steadying breath, walking over to his door and turning its handle, “What's up, S—”

Dean's words die in his throat when he finds himself face-to-face, not with Sam, but with Cas.

The Californian has a book in one hand and his green backpack dangling from the other, as if they have a study date. Dean would laugh at the absurdity of it were he not so dismayed and surprised. Cas is wearing a black undershirt without holes in it, and his hair looks as if it's been brushed today.

Dean doesn't know what to say, so he closes his mouth and holds onto the doorknob still clasped in his right hand as if letting go of it will trigger the apocalypse.

“I'm making popcorn. You guys want any?” Sam asks, apparently oblivious to the tension between the two adolescent boys in front of him.

“...What? No. Well, I don't. Do you? Want popcorn, I mean?” Dean says in one stuttered breath, not looking directly at Cas even as he awkwardly fires questions at him.

“No,” Cas says simply, a corner of his mouth twitching slightly. Dean knows he's blushing from the heat he can feel gathering in the apples of his cheeks.

Sam is looking at Dean strangely now. “Okay. I'll...be downstairs,” the younger Winchester says at last, canting his head in silent inquiry toward Dean before turning and heading back down the hallway.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Dean asks Cas once Sam is gone and he's closed the door behind them.

Cas doesn't answer immediately, instead casting a glance around Dean's room as if it's changed greatly in the month or so they haven't been talking. He turns the book he's holding over and over in his gloved hands. The motions of his fingers are graceful and easy as they stroke the edges of cream-colored pages.

“Your parents aren't home,” Cas says, the words not a question. His eyes are clear and watchful again, the way Dean is accustomed to seeing them. The blue of his gaze is like sharpened ice or expensive crystal.

Dean shakes his head in response. He knows he should be telling Cas to leave, but he doesn't.

“Here,” Cas says before shoving the book he's been toying with into Dean's hands.

Dean's surprised to see that it's a Vonnegut novel he doesn't own. He'd had no idea Cas even noticed he reads Vonnegut. It makes him wonder briefly what else Cas has noticed while in this room with him that he's never commented on.

Dean doesn't know what Cas expects him to do now, what he's _supposed_ to do. He suspects that the book is supposed to serve as a sort of apology, and isn't sure if he finds the gesture insulting or gratifying. Dean flexes his fingers by his sides, tempted to look down at the floor in order to avoid Cas's eyes.

“What do you want?” Dean asks.

Cas looks at him as if the question is idiotic, and says without hesitation, “You.”

Dean closes his eyes as he exhales heavily. He wants to pretend that he hasn't thought of Cas since he jumped from the Impala, of the casual self-possession the other boy wears like armor, of the pain and pleasure which war with one another at Cas's touch.

_There's nothing wrong with us._

He feels exhausted and mollified at the same time, as if he's scaled one mountain only to have to immediately begin climbing another. He rubs his hands over his face, suddenly aching with all that he knows he won't say.

“You didn't talk to me for a month,” Dean says as he opens his eyes.

Cas quietly turns and locks Dean's door before setting his bag and fingerless gloves down beside it. He slowly and deliberately crosses the room to meet Dean in its middle. Dean numbly watches Cas move, the cat-like lilt of his steps almost mesmerizing in the pale afternoon light.

He's standing directly in front of Dean soon, only a scant few inches left between them.

Dean doesn't notice when he drops the book Cas gave him onto the floor, doesn't hear the soft _thwump_ it makes on the carpet. All Dean knows is Cas as the other boy comes closer, as the space between them disappears as if it was never there to begin with. Cas cups the back of Dean's head, and Dean's lips part at their proximity. He can feel Cas's breath on his face.

“You're the only one who knows,” Dean whispers, his voice cracking mid-sentence.

“I'll make it better,” Cas says, his voice almost tender.

He moves his face to the side and bites Dean's neck so savagely that he cries out and grabs Cas's shoulders to ground himself. He wonders if he's bleeding.

“Fuck,” Dean exhales harshly. He tilts his head back to give Cas better access and shudders as the other boy bites him again. He does so a little more gently this time, his tongue tracing the skin he just sank his teeth into.

When Cas pulls Dean's face down to kiss him, Dean lets him.

He wants to make Cas say sorry, wants to ask Cas why he said what he did after dinner with his family, why he insists on keeping Dean at arm's length for weeks after they fuck. He wants to understand why Cas even wants him in the first place, what Cas could have possibly seen in the closeted football player who asked his friends to beat the shit out of him. He wants to kiss Cas in a school hallway so everyone can know that Dean Winchester's a fag and he _likes_ it that way.

He wants to stop living a lie.

But he voices none of these thoughts, and lust soon distracts him enough that he's kissing Cas back. He eagerly runs his hands over the scarred skin he's missed touching.

Cas pushes him onto the bed, nipping Dean's lip and moving to suck a third mark onto his neck as he grabs the hem of Dean's t-shirt and pulls it over his head.

Soon they're both naked, their clothes discarded in a nearby pile on the floor. Cas is straddling Dean's hips, their cocks slick with pre-come as they rut together on his bed. His blue eyes are fathomless and almost wild as he bends to kiss Dean again, opening his mouth with his tongue. Dean moans quietly at the confluence of the kiss and Cas's erection sliding wetly over the divot where Dean's hip meets his thigh.

Dean is aware that his brother is downstairs, and tries his best to keep quiet as Cas slips off of him and begins to turn him onto his stomach. His long-fingered hands are tight where they're clamped over Dean's hipbones.

Dean's cock twitches against the soft cotton of the sheets underneath him as he thinks of their first time together, how it had made him feel when Cas fucked him in this position, how good it had been even as Dean wondered why Cas didn't want to look at him. He doesn't fight what Cas wants, though, unsure as he always is if this will be the last time they do this together.

Cas is roughly spreading his legs, and Dean buries his face in the down of his pillow as he prepares for the inevitable burn of Cas pushing into him. He hasn't even heard his bedside drawer open yet and wonders if Cas plans to fuck him dry.

He knows he should be afraid, but he isn't. All Dean feels now is almost incomprehensible desire and a relief that runs bone-deep. Cas is _here_ , with him for the first time in weeks, hot and bare behind him.

When Dean feels Cas's tongue slip into the cleft between his buttocks, it's not what he's expecting. He begins to pull away from the touch, never having experienced what Cas is trying to do to him and too self-conscious to be enthusiastic about it. In response, Cas stretches both arms up to wrap his hands firmly around Dean's trembling thighs, forcing him to stay in place as he laps at Dean again, this time with more intent.

At first, Dean is stiff under Cas' ministrations, assuming he'll simply have to fake some sort of positive response until Cas has decided he's finished. He can't help but wonder if he tastes clean, never having been more grateful for a shower than he is in this moment. Dean's erection has softened somewhat, and he gasps and fists the sheets in surprise and shocked pleasure when Cas moves one of his hands between Dean's legs to grasp it with sure fingers. Cas swipes his thumb over the sensitive head in time with the flicker of his tongue. The combination has Dean at full attention again in under a minute, and he can dimly hear himself moaning into the pillow as Cas continues to lave warm, wet strokes over his opening. He alternates between flattening his tongue and dragging it over the whole of Dean's cleft and making it into a point that he presses a teasing half-inch or so past the ring of muscle. Soon Dean no longer worries about the way he tastes or how deviant this act should feel. All he knows is the mindless internal cry of _more, more, more_.

He's never felt anything like the dirty-wet slide of Cas's lips and tongue in one of the most intimate places on his body. Dean's seen rim-jobs in the porn he watches alone at night sometimes, but has always assumed that the guys in them were faking their reactions.

Nothing's real in porn after all, right?

But this is like nothing Dean's ever experienced before, and he's wondering a few minutes in why every human being hasn't made this a regular part of their sexual repertoire. He's fairly certain he could come just from Cas licking him there, is in fact teetering on the edge already.

Before long he's pressing himself back onto Cas's relentless tongue, crying out softly with every slick, shallow press inside. He revels in the feeling of Cas's hands on him, the calluses that drag roughly over the softness of his skin. One is rhythmically stroking his dripping cock and the other has moved to palm the left globe of Dean's ass, kneading the fat there between his fingers.

Dean almost comes twice and is wondering if Cas will let him when the amazing sensation ceases and he feels Cas straighten up behind him. Dean falls weakly down onto his stomach again on the bed from where he'd hoisted himself up onto his hands and knees. He's more relaxed than he's been in days and simultaneously shaking so hard he knows Cas can probably feel it.

Cas touches his back almost gently, his hands rubbing small circles into Dean's skin as if to soothe the tremors running through him.

Cas has only touched him this way once before, and Dean's not sure what to make of it now.

It's a relief when Cas finally, thoroughly slicks himself up and positions himself against Dean. He can feel the throb of blood beneath the soft skin, the slight twitch as Cas rubs the head against the opening still wet with his own saliva.

Dean shudders as Cas begins to enter him. He moans brokenly as Cas's cock slips into his body easily, so pliant is Dean after the last ten minutes. His rim stretches smoothly to accommodate Cas's girth, the hardness of him sliding home with one thrust. Dean feels no pain, only fullness.

His cock has soaked the sheets pressed to his belly, the cotton slick with his pre-come. He breathes in slowly.

Dean's legs are spread wide where he lies beneath Cas. He's split apart so seamlessly, his body stretched around the familiar cock without the usual tension he carries even inside himself. When one of Cas's hands comes up to cover Dean's open mouth and the other snakes beneath him to grab his cock again, Dean whimpers and tries to push back against Cas. He wants to feel how deeply he can take him inside.

Cas fucks him slowly but forcefully, each thrust ending only when Cas's flat belly is flush against Dean's buttocks.

Dean knows if his brother wasn't home he'd be screaming into the palm covering his lips.

The unhurried slide of Cas in and out of him is almost tortuously good, but at the same time isn't quite enough. Dean tries to get him to speed up more than once without success. But Cas continues at the same, slow pace, filling Dean completely every time and smothering his protests. Once or twice Cas even stops altogether, biting the back of Dean's neck as he writhes on Cas's cock.

Cas has never fucked him this way, even when he gentled his movements somewhat the last time they were in this bed together. This is deliberate teasing, and Dean's half out of his mind after less than ten minutes of it.

“Fuck—oh, fuck! Come on, _come on_ ,” Dean moans into Cas's hand, his muscles stretched taut again as he pushes himself back onto Cas's cock as hard as he can.

“This is what I'm giving you. Be good and fucking _take it_ ,” Cas murmurs. He punctuates the last three words with a pull to Dean's cock and three rapid thrusts.

That's all Dean has needed for the last five minutes, and he comes almost violently with Cas's lips still pressed to his ear.

He hears Cas hiss above him and feels it when he comes not long after, emptying himself inside of Dean.

Instead of immediately standing up to pull his clothes back on, Cas rolls onto his side to lay down beside Dean on the bed.

Dean carefully looks over at the other boy, wondering if the change in position has tired him out. Cas's lean body radiates heat from the exertion of what they've just done, his dark hair sticking to his forehead in a few places and his eyes closed as he rests one hand on his chest.

Cas has never so much as waited around for Dean to catch his breath before.

Dean feels adrift as he stares at Cas's closed eyes, at the few veins he can see beneath the delicate skin of his eyelids, the silver of his lip piercing. He wants to touch Cas but doesn't allow himself to, not wanting to flip the switch that turns him hard and quiet again.

Dean keeps his hands where they are, clenched at his sides over the sweat-dampened sheets, and Cas breathes evenly. The slow rise and fall of his chest is soothing somehow as Dean looks on.

When they begin to get dressed less than fifteen minutes later, Cas acts as if nothing different has happened. But he sits near Dean on the bed after they're both fully clothed again.

They stare silently at the wall together, their unlaced shoes loose on their feet, and Dean feels something has changed between them, but not what or exactly when it did.

They say nothing to one another, even as Dean drives Cas home, but the silence isn't cold this time. It's worn-in and sleepy and a little awkward, but it isn't cold.

Cas doesn't say it, but Dean is relatively certain he's sorry.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hoped you liked this chapter!  
> My life is kind of up shit-creek lately, so any comments or tumblr messages would definitely not be amiss right now (I'm blackdog9314 on tumblr, as well).


	11. Chapter 11

Exams begin for Cas on Monday morning, after a seemingly endless Sunday that he spends alone with the unpacked boxes still cluttering his room.

Though all of Cas's teachers have been sternly informing their classes for weeks that tardy students won't be permitted to take exams, he isn't surprised when each of them wordlessly allows him to take a test booklet after walking into the classroom ten minutes late here, fifteen minutes there.

Cas hears no reprimands from their closed lips, sees no acknowledgment in their eyes. There is only an unconcerned acceptance of his presence.

Cas finds he almost wants one of them to ask who he thinks he is, to make him leave. But they don't, and Cas can practically hear what they're thinking, what every teacher he's ever had has thought of him. He knows what they won't bother to say to him.

No one has before.

When Cas comes home each evening it's to an empty house and a note from his aunt telling him that she's either working behind the counter at the Dollar General or spending her evening in their neighbor's living room watching TiVo.

Cas doesn't like having the small rooms of the dirty house to himself. The silence crawls over his skin like someone else's breath, and he pilfers shots of whiskey from the kitchen to slam in-between the cigarettes that film his hair with smoke.

He hasn't run into Dean at school because of the irregular scheduling for exams, and twice Cas finds himself making the long trek to the park near Dean's house where they met up a month or so back.

Both times Cas almost texts the other boy and asks him to come over for a reenactment of their nighttime tryst, but he doesn't.

He isn't really sure what he would do if he were to spend time with Dean here, anyway.

For all of his bravado Cas knows he's too tired to fuck Dean right now. An uneasy exhaustion feels as if it's sunken down into the marrow of his bones, the creases of his knees and elbows. He feels barren, stripped of his leaves like the trees surrounding the park, too raw to stand beside Dean and his perfect smile, his mystifying lack of self-preservation.

But that doesn't stop Cas from wondering if Dean has been reading the book he gave him, if he goes to sleep with it beside his bed and thinks of Cas when and if he opens it.

As he stands against the rusted base of the monkey bars, Cas thinks of Dean's fingers flipping the dog-eared pages of the book, of his green eyes darting over the smudged words in their outdated typeface.

If Dean were late to an exam Cas knows the teacher would ask why.

 

The precalculus exam on Thursday is the only one that Cas isn't late to, and he sits at Dean's empty desk to take the test. He scratches absently at the scar behind his ear as he stares down at the questions on the gray-tinted paper. All of the questions are the same recycled bullshit their teacher's been giving them the answers to for weeks. It doesn't take long for the class to finish their tests and turn them in.

He knows Dean's probably sitting in the gym at that very moment, bored out of his mind with all the other students exempt from their exams this testing session. Cas can see him in his mind's eye, crammed in beside Jo and his football buddies on the bleachers as the minutes tick slowly by. He will be smiling, Cas knows, as he always is when he's around Jo.

Though Cas will never say the words aloud, there are times when he almost regrets the fact that he called Dean's best friend a bitch.

 

Friday marks the first day of Christmas break.

Cas surfaces from broken slumber to a sky clouded and white beyond his window at six in the morning.

He can hear his aunt in the room next door as she snores, each exhale seemingly louder than the one before. Cas shivers as he shoves his blanket off and shifts himself so that he's braced on his knees in front of the window.

The heater in his aunt's house has been broken for the past two days. Knowing from recent experience that it won't change the already-frigid temperature of the room, Cas opens his window. He winces at the loud screech it makes before grabbing a cigarette and lighter from the pack on his dresser. He leans against the window sill, ignoring the cold sting of it through his thin shirt.

He casts a glance back once the cigarette is lit and between his lips.

The walls of his room are dull in the paleness of early morning. The paint is peeling beneath old, ugly nail holes and pieces of tape. The carpet is stained; the ceiling is water-damaged; the moulding is scuffed. A cold breeze whistles through the room.

The view from the inside isn't much better, all dry yellow grass and broken beer bottles scattered near a vandalized chain-link fence.

Cas's aunt grunts in her sleep and it sounds as if she's standing right beside him.

Cas throws his cigarette into the mound of sand a yard or so away and propels himself up from the bed. He pulls on a shirt dangling from its edge and the jeans he wore yesterday that are still crumpled on the floor.

He grabs his phone, shivering as another gust of cold air blows right through him.

*

Dean sits up in his bed. The sheets that are tangled around his middle are warm and soft from where they've been taut against his skin for the past few hours. He can just barely make out the pallid beginnings of a wintry dawn coming from the slight gap of his drawn curtains. He blinks a few times, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

He's rarely up so early, and for a moment isn't sure if he's been awoken by his usual alarm for school rather than the chiming tone of an incoming text.

He fumbles for the phone a foot or so away from his head, almost knocking it off of his dresser in his blind bid for it. He's fully expecting it to be a picture message from Jo; she has the sleeping habits of a mother of three and an annoying penchant for sending Dean images of interesting items or natural formations she encounters while on her early-morning walks.

However, it's not a message from Jo but from the unsaved number Dean recognizes as Cas's.

' _Meet me at the park. im 20min away'_

Dean can practically hear Cas's low voice saying the words as he reads them to himself _._

It's the first interaction Dean's had with Cas since the guy's impromptu visit to the house a week prior. Dean feels his face flush as the memory of what they did together rolls over him in a rose-pink, warm wave.

He isn't sure what to make of Cas texting him so soon after. Though their encounter ended on what felt like a positive note, Dean has learned not to expect much from the other boy. But he feels a thrill of curiosity run through him at the message rather than the irritation he's certain a _normal_ person would feel.

In less than five months Dean will graduate, and then there's a good chance he'll be going to school in another city, maybe even another state. He's confident that what he and Cas are doing (whatever the fuck it is) will be over by then. All of this will probably be just a strange memory that will feel like a dream, or perhaps a nightmare.

_Won't it?_

He pushes the thought to the back of his mind where it takes up gray matter beside the dozen or so college applications he hasn't told anyone about.

Dean doesn't realize that he's getting out of bed and taking the few steps over to his closet until he feels the softness of the carpet beneath his socked feet.

Dean catches sight of the Vonnegut novel Cas gave him where it sits on his desk, his place in it marked with a folded sheet of notebook paper. He's been reading it whenever he has a few minutes of spare time (which there's been disappointingly little of the last few days since it's been mostly taken up by bouts of frenetic cramming and chauffeuring Sammy to and from school since the kid doesn't want to take a cold bus anymore).

The house is almost entirely quiet. Sam and Mary are sleeping soundly in their respective rooms, and all Dean hears as he hurriedly dresses are the low hums of passing cars just outside and the rhythmic huffs of his own breaths.

He slips into a shirt he knows brings out the green of his eyes and sprays himself with a bit of his favorite cologne. Then he creeps as quietly as he can down the stairs, his uneasy breaths held still and tight in his lungs. His shoes are clutched in one hand and his car keys in the other as he places a foot lightly on each carpeted stair, praying he can avoid waking his mother or Sam. He's not sure what he'll say if he happens to run into either of them, and doubts any lie he comes up with on the spot will be particularly convincing.

It's freezing when he steps outside a few cautious minutes later. It's an expected drawback considering how early in the day it is, and Dean is still barefoot as he stands on the chilled concrete of his front porch. He quickly moves to slip his shoes on after he's locked the door behind him since the soles of his feet are already going numb.

The Impala's seats don't warm up quickly enough for his comfort once Dean's behind the wheel. He purses his lips and bears it as he starts the car and puts it in drive.

Cas isn't smoking a cigarette when Dean drives the short distance to the park to meet him. He's simply standing there, both hands jammed into the pockets of his hole-ridden jeans and his dark head slightly bowed. His arms are pale and Dean wonders why he never wears any sort of jacket.

When Dean starts to get out of his car Cas shakes his head, walking toward him rapidly.

Dean watches him silently as he makes his way over. The sway of Cas's hips is almost graceful, and the absent grip he always keeps on the wallet in his back pocket is a familiar one; Cas is forever protecting his possessions from a nonexistent pickpocket.

When Cas reaches Dean and the idling Impala he mutely lowers himself into the passenger seat. He doesn't look directly at Dean as he gives directions to a nearby lot.

Dean's heart is pounding in his chest as if this is the first time he and Cas have been alone together. He follows Cas's instructions to the letter, and in less than fifteen minutes he's parking his car behind an abandoned building he's passed once or twice before without much thought.

Once the Impala is turned off the boys sit in silence in the front seat, the air between them thick. Dean looks at Cas after a minute or two, internally debating whether or not he should ask why he wanted to meet up so early.

But he's not expecting what he sees upon swiveling his head. Cas's features are drawn and his breaths are quick and shallow. He looks...small, as if he's somehow dropped five pounds of muscle in the twelve minutes he's been sitting beside Dean in the front of the Impala. His mahogany-brown hair is heavy with oil, and there are bags beneath his striking eyes.

“You okay?” Dean asks with genuine concern. At the question Cas turns and looks at him for the first time since he got into the car. His eyes are wide and blank.

Dean isn't sure what he's assuming Cas will do next, but it certainly isn't the Californian climbing into the backseat of the car. Once Cas is seated he reaches forward and grabs the collar of Dean's flannel shirt, pulling him into the back seat with him.

Cas straddles Dean, pulling his shirt open with no concern for its tortoiseshell buttons before bowing his head and swiping at Dean's nipples with his teeth and tongue.

Dean arches into the touch, closing his eyes as his hands twitch beside Cas's cold ears. He wants to cup his head, stroke Cas's dark hair and hold him to his chest. But he grabs the headrests of the leather seats on either side of him instead. He gasps when Cas grinds his hips down hard into Dean's and lets out a low, broken sound.

Dean forgets to wonder about it when Cas reaches one hand up to pull roughly at Dean's hair, yanking his head back. He holds Dean down that way, open and exposed with his throat bared to Cas's teeth as the other boy begins to unbutton his jeans.

*

Dean is still and obedient beneath Cas's hold. The naked column of his throat is pale, and his full lips are wetly parted.

Cas feels as if he can't breathe in deeply enough, as if the sky is pressing down on the roof of the car and this moment is quickly hurtling toward its end the way all of the others have, as if the aftershocks of orgasm are already wracking through him. Cas aches at the thought.

Cas unbuttons Dean's jeans and takes his stiffening cock in hand. Dean's hair is soft between the fingers of his other hand, and his skin is almost feverishly warm beneath the flannel.

Cas knows he must feel cold against Dean, that he probably feels like ice from the walk over and the fifteen minutes he waited by the swings and his fucking _house._ But Dean presses himself up against Cas anyway, spreading his legs and thrusting into Cas's hand.

Soon Cas has opened the fly of his own pants and is jacking them together the way he has before. Dean's moans are loud in his ear.

Cas wonders if it's the throbbing confines of the cage of steel and leather around them that's making him feel every pinprick of warmth and cold against his skin.

He suddenly wants to know that if he kisses Dean the other boy will kiss him back. It's never mattered before, but it does now and Cas doesn't ask himself why as he moves his head up jerkily and captures Dean's lips with his own.

Dean whimpers pitifully and comes, hard, when Cas slips his tongue into the waiting seam of his mouth.

Cas feels like he's drowning as he fucks his own fist, Dean's come slicking the channel his fingers make. Dean is warm where he's still pressed against Cas, and his skin smells like rainwater. It's all Cas can smell as he orgasms not long after.

Cas rolls away a little to press his burning cheek against the window. He feels awkward as he realizes that he's never kissed Dean while fucking him before.

Cas shakes his head, taking a trembling breath.

He buttons himself back up and tells Dean to take him back home. Dean complies without comment, his expression unreadable.

“I'm fine,” Cas says stiffly before getting out of the Impala twenty minutes later, answering a question Dean has probably forgotten he asked.

 

That night, as he smokes a cigarette on his aunt's porch, Cas wonders to himself when the other boy stopped being _Winchester_ or _quarterback,_ and became simply _Dean_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments give me life, as does Tumblr love (and wonder of wonders, I now know how to access messages and asks! ha).


	12. Chapter 12

Two days pass before Cas texts Dean again, and Christmas Eve is only three days away when he does.

Cas's number has a name now; Dean saved it when he got home after dropping Cas off, both confused and sated. He hasn't added a last name to it, yet, though. He's been telling himself that it's not a big deal so long as Cas remains simply _C_ in his contacts list.

_'Come pick me up'_

Dean feels his stomach sour as he reads the text. John is off the road with them for the first time in weeks, and Mary's actually taken an unprecedented four days off from the hospital to spend time with them over Sam and Dean's break. Dean doubts he and Cas will have much alone time unless they drive to the park or the abandoned lot again, and the forbidding evening forecast rules out either possibility.

However, he texts back truthfully despite his misgivings, _'Fam's home tonight. U sure?'_

_“Yea”_

Dean is incredibly surprised at Cas's response and then immediately somewhat doubtful. He almost texts back to tell Cas that the chances of them seriously fooling around are slim-to-none. He probably should; it's not as if Cas wants to come over to discuss their feelings or interact with Dean's nerd of a brother.

But instead he asks his mother if Cas can come to the house for a few hours.

Mary smiles at the sound of the other boy's name and tells Dean that she'll inform John they're going to have a fifth dinner guest that evening.

“How's he been?” his mother asks casually from where she stands at the kitchen counter. There's a mug of coffee with way too much creamer in her hands. She's joked more than once that she has a functional caffeine addiction, and the truth of her words is especially evident today in the way she's mainlining her fourth cup of French roast at five pm.

“What? You mean how's Cas?” Dean asks her belatedly. Mary nods with a smile, curls of steam drifting upwards from the rim of the cup to frame her oval face.

“He...he's good. Tired.” Dean's not sure what prompts him to choose that specific word. But he feels the veracity of it in the center of his chest when he thinks of Cas, wan and implacable in the center of a half-rusted playground.

Mary looks at him with something like understanding and doesn't say anything else.

Dean takes the opportunity to head back up to his room and pull his sneakers and jacket on. When he comes back downstairs he has to cross through the living room to get to the front door. Sam and their father are sitting on the couch together watching some cop show.

Sam looks at Dean as he ducks under the white-blue glow of the TV. “You pickin' Jo up?” he asks.

Dean shakes his head, wishing his brother hadn't said anything, “Nah, Cas is comin' over again tonight.”

Sam nods, “He, like, your new bestie or something?”

Dean isn't sure what to say. Now John has turned his attention away from the TV to look at Dean as well.

“What? No.”

“He was over last week, I thought—”

“He what?” John interrupts his youngest son.

Dean feels his palms begin to sweat, “He came by to give me a book he borrowed. Wasn't like we hung out or anything.”

John is looking at him with eyes Dean can tell are narrowed even in the dim lighting of the police flashers on the screen in front of them. Dean has seen that look before, and wants nothing more than to move out from under it.

“Anyway, I'm gonna go get him. See you guys at dinner,” Dean practically speed-walks to the door after that, not giving his father or Sam a chance to say anything else to him.

The drive to Cas's aunt's feels as if it takes forever. Dean finds himself hoping that it is, that he isn't imagining the seconds dripping into minutes and hours as the tires of the Impala eat the highway beneath him.

For all of the girls Dean's made clear that he's fucked, all of the degrading macho jokes he's spewed about them, all the knowing smiles that feel like slime on his face that he's given his father, it's abundantly clear in stupid, fucking _meaningless_ moments like the one he just experienced that John has never believed any of it.

_One second._

_One goddamn second._

When Cas is opening the door and sliding into the car ten minutes later Dean is startled from his thoughts. He hadn't even consciously registered idling in front of the familiar run-down house.

Cas is shivering noticeably, his lips sealed tight enough that it looks painful. Dean recognizes the look; he saw it often enough on Sam's face before John got the job he has today and they were able to run the heater without going broke.

“You look cold,” Dean says from the driver's seat, knowing how dumb it probably sounds.

“Heater's broken,” Cas says shortly in response. He's sitting so straight his spine could be used as a ruler.

Disappointment flowers in Dean's guts at the words.

When they reach the house not long after, Dean is glad to discover Sam and John have gone out to buy groceries for tonight's dinner and won't be back for at least a half-hour. It's Mary who greets them with the news; she smiles brightly at Cas when they encounter her in the small entryway.

“Hello, Castiel,” she says, coming forward with her hands outstretched before Dean can stop her.

Cas's eyes widen briefly in surprise and then flutter closed as Mary gently wraps her arms around his shoulders. The blue, spidery veins in Cas's eyelids contrast starkly with the lightness of his skin. Dean watches Cas's head sink forward into the crook of Mary's neck as she tries to rub some warmth into his goose-pimpled arms. Dean's seen his mother do this to Sam countless times, has rolled his eyes as she does it to _him_ when he comes inside from a winter day in Houston. It's never occurred to him how intimate the gesture is until now, as he watches his mother do it to someone who may as well be a stranger to her, to Dean, for that matter.

Dean can't imagine what it would feel like to hold Cas in such a way.

It strikes him then just how little he knows about Castiel Krushnic from Oakland, California. All he knows is that Cas lives in a derelict house in a bad part of town, his parents didn't come with him, and he has two tattoos, one of which Dean can't even read.

Mary releases Cas with another smile, this one softer, and waves them farther into the house. She offers her guest coffee or water, but Cas politely declines both.

A minute or two after that they trek up the stairs to the bedroom, and Dean doesn't ask Cas why when the Californian crawls into the rumpled bed they've shared before and falls asleep almost instantly. He's pushed himself against the wall, an outstretched hand and tufts of dark hair the only parts of him visible between the cream-white of the flannel sheets Dean put on his bed a few days ago.

Cas has stopped shivering only a few minutes into his nap, and Dean's grateful to see it. Now, the long lines of Cas's body beneath the comforter move smoothly, the gentle up-and-down of slow breaths.

Dean watches as Cas's hand balls itself unconsciously into a fist and then unfurls beside his pillow. The short, bitten stubs of his nails, the winding roads of pink and white scar tissue, all mark a past Dean can only guess at.

He doesn't think he should feel sad at the thought of Cas being cold and tired, but he is.

 

Cas wakes up not long before dinner's ready, the smell of baked chicken wafting up from the kitchen no doubt contributing to his sudden consciousness. He sits up suddenly when he does, one hand outstretched as if to shield himself.

His blue eyes are oceans in that moment, fathomless and dark in the id-like awareness of the newly-woken. He rakes a hand over his face and looks at Dean where he's been sitting at his desk a few feet away. The Vonnegut novel is open in his hands.

“How long?” Cas asks in a voice still thick with sleep.

Dean shrugs, “Maybe two hours.”

Cas nods and says nothing more.

*

The second Winchester family dinner Cas has the good (or poor) fortune to attend is somewhat more bearable than it was the first time around.

Sam is obviously texting someone under the table, trying and failing to hide the fact that he's checking the phone in his lap every five minutes. Mary gives him meaningful glances each time she catches him at it. Every time Sam blushes and looks back up for another few minutes before glancing down again and starting the cycle over.

John doesn't speak directly to Cas beyond a curt greeting as they sit there eating lemon-pepper chicken and a hearty tossed salad. But Cas catches the older man looking at him once or twice over the course of the meal.

While a few things have changed this evening, one thing that hasn't is Dean's shift in temperament while in his father's presence. While they're seated with his family he speaks only when spoken to, sitting quietly with his elbows at his sides as he forks his food into an almost-closed mouth. His green eyes dart to and fro as if he isn't sure what it's best to look at.

In some ways Dean reminds Cas of John more than he does either Mary or even Sam; Dean and his father have the same quietly watchful way about them, the same familiar, firm set of their jaw when they're holding in words they would rather say, the identical sidelong glances they both spare for Mary or Sam.

Cas is starting to think it's a good thing John is gone so often.

Mary makes a natural hostess. She asks everyone at the table if they want seconds and passes the water pitcher before it's asked for as if she has a sixth-sense that tells her who's thinking about getting a refill. She comments affectionately that Sam needs a haircut and asks Dean if Jo has told him anything more about how Ellen is doing.

Though Cas can tell Mary wants to talk to him, she apparently also has a knack for sensing that he has nothing to say tonight. She doesn't venture much his way.

Cas, for his part, spends his second meal with the Winchesters sitting next to Dean. He's warm for the first time in days and eating food that someone actually prepared and cared about.

When Mary smiles at him from across the table and asks if he'd like to take a plate home, Cas feels the sick, yellow oiliness of guilt churning through him. It thickens the saliva in his mouth.

It feels too close to a home he can't find his way back to, too much like the family Cas once imagined he was part of.

_Esto es para ti._

He slept in Dean's bed.

_Quisieras llevarte algo de esto a tu casa?_

Mary held him and he let her.

_Ven cuando quieras._

He kissed Dean while they came together in the backseat of a car.

_Eres como un otro hijo._

Cas pushes his plate away, abruptly the farthest thing from hungry.

He wills himself to remain in the current moment. He breathes in deep and tells himself that it doesn't hurt to. He pretends that the scent of lemon and thyme and chicken fat can keep him grounded in Texas forever.

_Dijiste que lo mantendría a salvo._

*

Not long after Cas stands to put his plate in the kitchen sink he and Dean go back up to his room. Sam is only too eager to do the same; his phone lights up with a new text even as he races up the stairs after cursorily telling his family and Cas goodnight.

Dean is almost one-hundred percent sure that his kid brother's talking to some girl from school, and knows that their father likely suspects the same thing. He's _also_ almost one-hundred percent sure that if he himself had dared try and text all throughout a family dinner John would have ripped him a new asshole at the table, company be damned.

He doesn't realize he's angry until the sound of his own bedroom door slamming shut behind him makes the walls of his room rattle. He winces at the noise and pauses where he stands, listening for any indication that his father is coming up the stairs to tell him to keep it down.

But he hears nothing, and when he turns back around to face Cas the other boy is staring at him as if he's spontaneously sprouted a second head.

“What the fuck's up with you and your dad?” he asks Dean frankly. His blue eyes are strangely dull beneath the yellow light, as if their color has faded over dinner. It's perhaps the third complete sentence he's said to Dean all evening.

“Fuck me,” Dean says.

*

Dean's never said it before, has never demanded it.

But now he's staring at Cas like he wants something terrible to happen. The color is drained from his cheeks, the freckles dancing across them a dark amber against poreless white. His eyes are vast in his face, his hands in fists by his sides.

Cas realizes just from looking at him that the last thing he should be doing to Dean right now is fucking him. He wants to leave the room but knows that Dean locked it behind them when they came in. He wants to crush the pity he feels at the sight of Dean looking the way he does.

He asks why instead.

Dean actually laughs at him. The sound is one devoid of mirth. “You're kidding, right?”

Cas shakes his head slowly.

Dean bites his lower lip, the pink flesh drawn between his teeth as he looks to the floor for a moment before snapping his head back up, “That's the only reason you come here.”

*

Surprise and something Dean can't identify flit across Cas's features at the words. But he doesn't deny it.

Dean feels the same disappointment he did in the car creeping back through his veins despite the knowledge that what he's said is true. It's not as if he was expecting Cas to contradict him.

Was he?

“If you make a fucking sound, I'll stop,” Cas's face is hard again, the expression one Dean recognizes all too well.

He hopes Cas makes it hurt a little.

Dean bites his tongue so hard it bleeds and turns off the light. He can hear Cas behind him in the dark as they both unbutton their jeans. He feels a mixture of stress and the promise of an outlet for it as he sinks forward onto his bed.

He leaves his shirt on, but his jeans are pulled down around his knees.

Cas sinks into the bed beside him. When he reaches out to touch Dean's bare skin, his hand is warm the way it wasn't in the car a few days before.

*

This is a bad idea.

Dean's entire family is home and Cas can feel how wound-up Dean is in the tension of his muscles and the trembling of his hands.

But he feels around for the lube in the bedside table's top drawer anyway.

Dean tries to turn onto his stomach, and in the warm dark Cas stops him, grasping a hip with his free hand and pressing him down so that he stays on his back. He imagines Dean's face where he lies below him, the full lips damp and parted, the angular cheekbones dewed with sweat and freckles.

' _That's the only reason you come here.'_

Cas wets a finger shortly after, slipping it into Dean's taut body.

When Dean makes a noise Cas can't place he begins to pull his finger out, not sure if he's hurting him. But Dean reaches out to grab his wrist, holding him there.

The prep is quick; it has to be. Every time Cas hears one of Dean's parents say something through the floor his erection flags somewhat. But he feels the gnawing desire to do this despite the awkwardness and the jerky start-stop of their movements together.

He feels like they need to do this now that they're halfway there.

_Finish what I started._

When Cas pushes into Dean, he knows it has to hurt a little. But Dean rolls his hips up. His thighs are trembling where they're wrapped around Cas's waist.

It's as quiet as they can make it, and fast.

Cas can hear the slick sounds of Dean working himself, can feel the rhythmic pulse of his body around Cas's cock as he snaps his hips forward and back.

Dean's never stopped shaking. Cas doesn't know if it's still with anger or has changed to lust.

When Cas feels Dean lift himself up on the backs of his arms, feels the soft brush of his lips on the corner of his mouth, he knows he should pull away.

*

Dean isn't expecting Cas to allow the kiss.

But he does, and in the false safety of the darkness Dean admits that he is gutted and open. He's at Cas's mercy in the most visceral sense.

As if Cas knows how raw Dean is in this moment, how thin and badly-healed, he doesn't bite Dean's lips until they bleed. He doesn't make him gasp out in pain even as he returns for more.

It's the second time Cas has kissed Dean without bruising him.

Dean feels the other boy's tongue slip into his mouth at the same time Cas's cock bottoms out inside him. Dean strokes himself, skin tingling and sweat dripping into the divots of his hips as Cas surrounds him. His arms are bracketed around Dean's upper body as he fills him again and again.

When Cas reaches down to wrap his hand around Dean's so that they're jerking him off together, Dean isn't able to suppress the shaking moan that's torn from his lips. He digs his fingers into Cas's shoulders when he comes not long after.

He feels the wet warmth of Cas doing the same inside him only a few strokes later.

When Cas separates them, he does so almost gently, easing out of Dean with more care than he has in the past. Dean can feel Cas's hands as they smooth over the exposed planes of his body and the semen cooling there. Dean's shirt is still rucked up and he notices that he hasn't stopped shivering.

Dean wishes he could lay his hands down on top of Cas's. He wishes he could ask Cas if he ever thinks about telling anyone what they do when they're alone. But he does neither, closing his eyes and letting Cas touch him until he stops.

When he turns the lights on so they can get dressed Cas doesn't look directly at him.

*

The drive back to Cas's is as quiet as the drive to leave was until Dean says without preamble, “You were right.”

Cas is lost. “What?”

Dean tears his eyes from the road for a moment to look over at Cas. His brow is slightly furrowed in the washed-out moonlight.

“A couple months back. When you said my dad—when you said he...” his voice trails off, as if he can't bring himself to say the words.

Cas understands almost instantly what Dean is referring to.

At the time he'd wanted to taunt Dean, get the pretty football player riled up and off-kilter enough to knock the already-teetering dominoes over. He feels somewhat uneasy at the realization that it's worked, though not in the way he'd anticipated then.

“It was a shot in the dark,” he says, the statement not a truthful one. It had been anything but.

Dean shakes his head as if he knows what Cas isn't saying, “My dad's always known, same way you did. He's never liked it.”

Cas turns and looks out his window. Something heavy expands in the center of his chest, a painful, dark bloom that breathes for him in that moment.

At this rate he needs a journal to document the list of things he regrets concerning Dean Winchester.

*

After Cas lets himself out of the car a few minutes later Dean shoves his leather jacket into the other boy's arms.

Cas stares down at the garment silently for a second before looking up at Dean.

“Your dad's like mine. Nothing's enough.” Cas's eyes find Dean's for the first time that night as he speaks.

With that, Cas turns and walks into the house, the sleeves of Dean's jacket swaying with every parting step.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spanish translations:  
> This is for you.
> 
> Do you want to take this home?
> 
> Come over whenever.
> 
> You're like another son.
> 
> You said you'd keep him safe.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you would like to hear the main song I listened to while writing this chapter, feel free to follow this [link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m-e7__XZN3M).

When Cas wakes up around ten in the morning on Christmas day, it's from a dream he can't remember upon opening his eyes.

The temperature in his bedroom has got to be below sixty degrees, he's shivering under a heap of blankets that feel wet against his skin, and Dean's jacket is on the floor beside his door.

Cas shoves the lumpy mass of comforters to the side, bathing his pale skin in the wan sunlight that illuminates the room. When he stands on sleep-weakened legs he drags the top-most blanket up with him, draping it over his shoulders to stave off the cold as he opens the door to join his aunt.

He doesn't know what his aunt intends to do for the holiday. He isn't sure if she even celebrates Christmas at all considering she hasn't put up any kind of decoration, but he didn't think to get her anything and wonders now if perhaps he should have.

It's not that Cas has chosen to forget about Christmas the majority of his life so much as the fact that Chuck and Anna usually made it exceedingly easy for him to do so. For them, each and every day was simply another in which they hungered for the white monster they courted, and holidays were no different. No day ever was.

The one time Cas actually celebrated Christ's birth had been with Isaac's family.

The frayed edges of the long floral curtains in the living room flutter softly as a draft makes its way through the space. Cas shivers and pulls the blanket a little tighter over his chest and shoulders. His aunt isn't in the sitting room, but the television is on and the sound of her favorite sitcom is seeping from the outdated apparatus as he passes it.

His aunt is standing before the stove in the kitchen when he enters it. She's wearing a blue terrycloth bathrobe over a red and green house dress and flannel pajama pants for warmth. She's frying spam and bright yellow eggs in a pan Cas hasn't seen before.

“Morning,” she murmurs without turning to face him.

“Morning,” Cas says awkwardly. He looks down at the dingy linoleum flooring in the kitchen where it's begun to peel back in the corners, revealing ruined wood striped with old glue.

“You...need any help?” he asks her after a minute or so passes with only the pop and sizzle of spam to fill the silence hanging between them.

“Want to make toast?” she inquires. He nods and knots the blanket around his chest to free both hands as he grabs bread from the pantry and checks a few cabinets until he finds another pan. The butter is already beside the stove, partially melted in its chipped blue and white dish. As Cas waits for the pan to heat on its burner he butters a few slices of bread and stacks them on a paper towel in preparation.

They stand like that in front of the stove, side by side as the smell of cooking meat tries and fails to permeate the chill air. Once or twice his aunt takes an audible breath as if she's about to say something. Wind whistles past the window beyond.

The eggs and spam are done a few minutes before the toast is, and soon both are scooped onto plates as Cas and his aunt situate themselves in the living room. Cas takes the sunken couch while directly across from him his guardian sits in her recliner.

The TV isn't loud enough for this, Cas thinks as he puts a bit of spam and egg on a corner of his toast and takes a bite. His aunt's hand is flexing by her leg, as if she doesn't know what to do with it. He catches her looking over at him more than once. In response he pretends to be totally absorbed in the sight of the yellow and brown scramble leaving a puddle of grease on his bargain brand paper plate.

This is the first time they've ever eaten together, and Cas has never realized until now that it's because looking at his aunt for too long makes him think of his mother.

_Nina._

Cas doesn't notice he's said his aunt's name aloud until she turns to look at him. The brown of her almond-shaped eyes is deep and dark.

On the television someone trips over a table leg and the live audience laughs uproariously at the obviously scripted action.

“I don't have much for you,” his aunt is saying then as she absently drags her fork through her eggs. “I wasn't sure what you would want.”

“It's fine,” Cas says quickly. The conversation echoes that of his forgotten birthday weeks previous.

“Well, it's not nothing. Merry Christmas.”

“I'll clean up,” Cas mumbles in response before forcing himself to eat a few more bites. His aunt nods in agreement and they eat the rest of their Christmas breakfast together in silence.

He and his aunt stand up from their respective seats a few minutes later, floppy plates empty in their hands. Cas considers asking his guardian if she ever heard from her sister after she left Chuck and their two children behind.

But Cas finds he can't bring himself to ask, even though he knows she would probably tell him.

His mother has been gone since he was three years old. Perhaps it's best she stays that way.

His aunt gives Cas thirty dollars broken into fives and a packet of Hanes socks for Christmas. He cleans the kitchen.

“Garth should be over soon to have a look at the heater,” she says sheepishly as Cas rubs his running nose on the back of his hand. He suspects that she's wondering whether or not she should lean in and hug him. She doesn't.

Not long after that his aunt is invited over to the neighbor's, and she asks Cas if he wants to come along and spend the day with them. Cas can tell she means it, but he tells her he's fine.

When she's been gone perhaps half an hour Cas wanders back into his bedroom with his socks, locking the door behind him. The spam and eggs and stale bread are heavy in his stomach.

He pulls back his curtains and unties the blanket he's had wrapped around his upper body like a stupid cape. The cold is cunning, and he finds he can't feel his hands and probably hasn't been able to for a few minutes.

Cas isn't looking at Dean's jacket as he slips it on, he's looking out his window at the patches of overgrown grass sprouting up from the mounds of silt, the long, yellow-white of their blades reaching up to cover the metal rims of barrels and the stripped darkness of discarded tires.

The jacket is soft and smells of Dean. Cas sits on the end of his bed wrapped up in the secondhand smell of the other boy and a semblance of warmth, the first he's felt since he left the Winchester's.

*

Dean taps his fingers rapidly on the Impala's polished steering wheel as he drives. He tries to convince himself that it's not anxiety or dread that makes him do so but the bass-heavy beat of the Black Sabbath song blasting from his speakers.

He's less than five minutes away from Cas's aunt's house and hasn't texted him yet.

He has a present wrapped in newspaper in the passenger seat and is wearing his Letterman jacket because Cas still has his leather one.

He's going almost ten miles above the speed limit because he knows he doesn't have much time to do this. While Mary had been content to let Dean 'drop something off at Jo's', John had been anything but, and Dean had promised his father he'd be back within the hour to spend the rest of the holiday with his family.

He's less than three minutes away, now.

Dean has never done this.

He's never texted Cas first, has never kissed him first or touched him first, and now he's driving over to his house on Christmas day with nothing resembling an invitation and he isn't stopping himself.

He just drums his fingers on the steering wheel and hums along with Ozzy, pretending that this isn't what it is.

*

Cas doesn't realize he's fallen asleep in Dean's jacket until he's startled awake by an insistent knocking at the front door. The sound is so loud in the quiet of the empty house that it carries into Cas's bedroom as if the door isn't even closed.

He grabs his pocket knife from where it rests on the bedside table and slips it into the pocket of the jacket before letting himself out of his room. He approaches the front door warily, not sure who could be visiting his aunt on a holiday he isn't even one-hundred percent certain she observes.

Cas isn't expecting to see Dean through the eyelet when he peers through it. The other boy is standing on the sagging porch wearing a red and beige jacket with their school's emblem on the front. There's something Cas can't see in one of his hands.

“Cas?”

Cas watches through the slot as Dean takes a step back and shoves his free hand nervously down into his pocket.

Perhaps it's that he's taken by surprise. Perhaps it's because it's Christmas. But Cas opens the door.

If Dean notices that Cas is wearing his jacket over a ripped t-shirt and faded sweatpants, he doesn't let on. He says only, “Can I come in?”

Cas wordlessly backs away from the door as Dean steps inside. He's gritting his teeth hard enough to hear the creak of his own molars.

“Shit, you weren't kidding,” Dean says as Cas shuts the door behind him. “It's freezing in here.”

Dean casts a look around the living room. Cas can almost see the polite disinterest he likely doesn't even know he's feigning as he takes in the battered, mismatched furniture, the smell of mildew, the thin warble of winter air as it envelops them without the buffer of a working heater.

Dean looks so out of place here.

It makes Cas wonder what he looks like in the Winchester's house, if his scuffed boots and torn jeans stand out as dreadfully as Dean's new tennis shoes do.

“Why aren't you with your family?” Cas asks him shortly. He's starting to think he should have just gone to the neighbor's with his aunt.

“I uh—I came here to give you something,” Dean says. He's flushed a dark red that makes his freckles stand out like pinpricks of gold on his high cheekbones.

For a second Cas doesn't know what Dean means until the significance of the day itself settles onto his shoulders like the blanket he wishes he was still wearing. Anything but this jacket that feels as if it's suffocating him.

“I didn't get you anything,” Cas snaps as he looks down at the floor, speaking to it instead of to Dean's face.

“I know,” Dean says quickly. He extends an arm as if to touch Cas before putting it down jerkily when he backs away from him. “Just let me give it to you and I'll leave.”

“Why are you doing this?” Cas asks as he wraps his arms around himself.

“Here,” Dean holds out what he's been carrying since he arrived. The newsprint is taped neatly around whatever it is and Cas shakes his head as he looks at it.

“I don't want it.”

He realizes he sounds ridiculous and uncrosses his arms. He looks to the side and back to Dean again where they're both far too big in the living room, the furniture suddenly doll-sized.

“It's for your wallet, you know? It hooks on here and you attach the other end to your belt loop. You always hold your stuff, so I thought maybe...” Dean is speaking so hurriedly Cas can barely catch it. He starts to unwrap the item himself, as if determined for Cas to see it even if he won't accept it.

The object in Dean's outstretched hands is a long, silver chain of medium width. It gleams coldly, coiled smoothly like a sleeping snake on top of a senator's face printed in black and white.

Cas doesn't know when he and Dean started spending so much time together that the quarterback noticed the perpetual hold Cas keeps on his wallet because of the number of times he had his things stolen in Oakland.

Dean is staring at him, and Cas can only stare at the chain.

*

Dean is waiting for Cas to cuss him out and shove the chain back at him; he's waiting for confirmation that he's being a stupid hormonal teenager the way movies make people his age out to be; he's waiting for Cas to do something besides stare at the chain in Dean's hands as if it's a beating heart.

“I can just leave it here,” Dean says stupidly.

Cas, who in this moment looks small in Dean's jacket, at last looks up. His eyes are oceans again as he extends a hand and takes the chain from Dean without comment.

*

As he holds the cool chain, Dean close enough to taste in front of him, Cas suddenly remembers the dream from which he awoke that morning.

*

Cas looks as if he's about to be sick, and Dean moves before he can convince himself that this, too, is a bad idea.

*

Dean's lips on his forehead are warm and dry, and Cas doesn't push him away or ask him to stay. He simply closes his eyes and inhales, missing Dean already even though he's still there.

*

Dean leaves immediately after to ensure he makes it home in time. Guilt rests red-orange and sour in his belly as he thinks of the cold he's leaving behind with every step toward Cas's door, of the endless blue the dark-haired boy wounds him with every time he looks for too long.

*

Cas sleeps bundled up in Dean's jacket that night, burying his face in one of its well-worn sleeves.

He dreams of being tall, as big as the beams of light dancing on the dirty walls of the shelter he and Anna used to spend weeks in. He dreams of being warm in the Martinez's living room as the sound of Spanish Christmas music fills the cavities in his chest.

He dreams of Dean, smiling at him as he winds lengths of chain around a headboard and touches him in a yellow room where there is no cold and there is no past or present. He dreams of the warmth of Dean's fingertips, so hot they sear Cas's skin.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make it all worth it, please, please leave them. You have no idea how much they mean to me during a time in which I honestly feel somewhat aimless and a little hopeless.  
> I'm not over my friend's death, not sure where to start.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art at the beginning of the text is something I made. It's my take on Punk!Cas.

The last few days of Dean's Christmas break blend into one another in a tepid, white-gold blur without the structure of classes to attend. Sam bums rides over to his friends' in the Impala; Mary makes sandwiches and casseroles with the leftover Christmas turkey that are somehow better than they were the day of; John leaves for another business trip two days after gifts have been exchanged; Jo invites herself over for a movie night; Gordon and Michael have Dean over for another evening spent drinking ill-begotten beer and shooting the shit.

It all has the lolling contentedness that every holiday from school seems to possess, and nothing interesting or singular occurs. At least, for the most part; the Saturday before classes begin again Dean receives a two-word text from Cas.

' _Thank you._ '

Whether Cas is thanking Dean for the wallet chain or the borrowed jacket, he's not sure.

Not having heard from the other boy in days, Dean feels an almost overwhelming relief and immediately begins to text him back.

His forefinger is hovering over the send button before he notices how foolish he sounds.

' _Sure. Is the heater still broken? I can come try and mess w/ it if u want._ _You been wearin the jacket?_ _I know a good guy in town if ur aunt doesnt know anyone'—_

It all seems too much, too sincere and eager.

Thirty minutes and two more discarded drafts later, all Dean ends up saying in response is, ' _If you need me, let me know._ '

Dean laughs scathingly to himself as he puts his phone away, unable to imagine Cas needing anyone.

*

The Sunday before school picks back up Cas' aunt tells him she has a friend with an office downtown looking to hire reliable people for a job working construction.

Though Cas doesn't want to do construction work, he holds out his hand and takes the laminated card from her with a word of thanks, anyway.

There's a phone number scribbled in blue ink on its backside, and the mid-afternoon light catches on the indentation of the writing on the glossy surface.

Cas sits in his room with the card in his lap for almost half an hour. His eyes trace the navy lines that come together only to branch out again and form numbers, dashes, parentheses.

He looks at the numbers for so long that they begin to blur, to smudge and bleed into the manila background like a word repeated until it sounds like nonsense. He runs his fingers over the edges of the card. They're as sharp as broken glass where they were severed by a paper cutter, or perhaps a new pair of scissors.

When Cas finally calls the number an hour or two later, the man who answers says he has no problem with the fact that Cas is still in school. He simply tells him to apply when he's graduated and all but guarantees he'll still be hiring in May.

Cas isn't surprised when he cuts his finger on the card by accident as he slips it into his wallet. But he finds he's too busy looking at the chain attached to it to notice the dart of pain, the bead of crimson spreading over the tip of his forefinger.

He wonders what Dean's plans after graduation are.

*

“Why're you so pissy?” Jo asks as she flicks a soggy french fry at Dean's face.

It's lunch period, and Jo and Michael are sitting across from Dean at a table not far from the one they occupied together last semester. Michael's arm is draped casually across Jo's shoulders, and if Dean didn't know better he'd suspect that the two of them intentionally donned the same color t-shirt that morning. He considers poking fun at them for it, but decides not to.

He sighs, the exhalation dragged from the bottoms of his lungs. Jo's right, Dean is being pissy.

“I'm just bummed I'm not in precal with you anymore,” Dean mumbles.

It's more or less a lie. Though Dean's somewhat disappointed that he has no classes with his best friend, he's _more_ disappointed about the fact that he doesn't have any with Cas either. It was confirmed after the first two days of his new block-schedule had come and gone.

“Aww, well aren't you sweet? What's actually going on?” Jo deadpans as she sets her fork down and looks at Dean intently.

“None of my classes are the way I want 'em,” Dean deflects defensively. He's relieved when Jo nods in understanding.

“Right? You'd think with all the money those stupid magnet programs bring in they could afford to hire a better secretary, or at least someone who actually gives a shit,” Jo grouses. “I swear to god, my working theory is that Streep gets shit-faced plastered and then draws up all the schedules.”

Dean nods but says nothing in response. He's long-used to the constant upheaval of the many programs and special courses contained in their school.

“You see Lisa earlier?” Michael asks Dean meaningfully as Jo looks down to check her phone. He's always been quick to assume that she's the source of Dean's moodiness when he goes MIA for a few days or gets overly compulsive at practices. Dean knows his teammate means well, but he and Lisa were a veritable train wreck even before he broke up with her, and the relief he felt upon doing so was indescribable.

“I didn't, no,” Dean says pointedly. He lifts his plastic cup of water and takes a sip, ignoring Michael's gaze.

Dean is quiet as he thinks of the single, brief time he'd seen Cas during passing periods.

He'd been wearing the jacket Dean lent him, and, more surprisingly, the chain. His dark hair had been as messy as ever, his blue eyes tired and listless. But the sharp jut of his angular cheekbones and jaw had been softened by the faded collar of the leather framing them. The malnourished cut of his features had looked almost delicate, somehow. Both of Cas's hands had also been free by his sides, the perpetual hold usually kept on the wallet relinquished as the chain swung from one of his hips.

It's hard to believe that school has only been back in session three days. It already feels to Dean as if it's been a lifetime of looking for Cas and coming a hair's-breadth away from catching him, of keeping his expression neutral as Cas walks away and the bottom falls out of Dean's stomach.

*

Late Wednesday evening Cas attempts to throw away three journals he found a day or two before in the disorganized boxes he still hasn't been able to bring himself to unpack. They're full of song lyrics Cas can't remember writing and little notes to himself he has no memory of leaving.

But not even telling himself that he'll probably never own a guitar again is enough to convince Cas to take the final step and release the journals into the trash can in the kitchen, to open his hands and _let go_.

Cas has to stop himself from grabbing his phone and texting Dean, He has to stop himself from answering the message the green-eyed boy sent him days before and trying to identify the blind clamor pulsing through his skull as well as he knows how.

_Maybe I do need._

*

The first Friday of the semester Dean receives a text from Cas telling him to wait in the bathroom between their third and fourth period classes.

Though he doesn't specify which bathroom, Dean's relatively certain that Cas is referring to the one in which he confronted Dean about Gordon and Michael a few months prior.

Dean knows he should be questioning more than the location of the meet itself, but doesn't bother pretending that he will.

He's aware by now that the last thing he could tell Cas is no.

*

Cas isn't surprised to discover that Dean's already arrived by the time he gets to the first-floor bathroom himself. He wonders if Dean left early to beat him there, or if he simply took longer to make his way down the stairs than he thought.

But Cas doesn't dwell on that, instead locking the door behind himself and turning to face Dean.

It's the first time in over a week he's seen Dean without a dozen or so shuffling students separating them. Cas takes in the sight of him with eyes that feel hollow and greedy.

Dean is leaning against the white, tiled wall with his hands jammed into the pockets of his blue jeans. His light eyes are wide and lucent as he wordlessly watches Cas walk toward him. It's stranger to see him here than Cas had anticipated it would be; the first and only time they were together in this bathroom Dean had been panicked and angry. The turmoil of his emotions had been written like words across the gentle slope of his full lips, the clench of his jaw. But right now Dean is looking at him with an almost familiar regard.

Cas closes the distance between them in two short strides, reaching out to box Dean in with his arms. He feels himself shudder at the warmth that gathers and pools between them. He's wearing Dean's jacket, and he hears Dean sigh as he closes his eyes and rests his hands on Cas's shoulders. The other boy unravels into the clutch of Cas's hold as if he's been waiting for it.

Cas bows his head to press his nose and lips to Dean's neck, breathing in the scent of Irish Spring and clean, soft skin. He feels Dean tilt his head back and realizes that the other boy's waiting for Cas to bite down on the exposed flesh, to draw blood and leave bruises the way he's done so many times before.

But Cas doesn't _want_ to.

He pulls away abruptly and pushes Dean back a few feet into the large handicapped stall a few yards away. He closes the door behind them and motions for Dean to get on his knees.

Dean does as he instructs without comment, sinking down onto the floor directly in front of Cas, his hands still clutching at the edges of his own jacket for support as he steadies himself.

Dean drags his hands down over Cas's thighs, then, caressing the hard-won musculature of his hips and the insides of his legs through the denim.

Whatever Cas had planned for this particular rendezvous is forgotten as he watches Dean unbutton his pants. He hisses as Dean reaches a hand into Cas's boxers and pulls his erection out through the slit in the fabric. He strokes the length of him slowly.

Dean gives no warning before abruptly taking Cas into his mouth.

Cas throws his head back, heedless of the crack against the back of his skull in favor of the feeling of Dean's soft hair between his fingers, of Dean's hungry lips and tongue on him.

He's as virginal and eager in his movements as he was the first time, but Cas feels as though that day pales in the face of _this_ , as if this is the first time he's ever truly felt Dean's mouth.

“I—thought—thought about you—this,” Cas gasps brokenly, the phrase one he tries and fails to swallow as Dean lets him fuck his mouth.

Dean's lips and throat vibrate as he moans. Cas chances another look down, only to find Dean staring up at him with eyes half-lidded, his lips swollen and almost red, his cheeks flushed a dark pink.

It only takes a few more thrusts for him to come into Dean's waiting mouth.

After, Cas reaches down and pulls Dean up by the collar of his overshirt. He's intent on wringing an orgasm from him as he palms the juncture of the other boy's thighs through his jeans.

He's not expecting to feel telltale wetness when he reaches inside Dean's underwear, though, and realizes that he must have come while on his knees.

Cas doesn't have time to fully process this before Dean is moving forward and softly grabbing his face, pressing his spit-slick lips to Cas's dry, parched ones. Dean tastes sweet when he should taste anything but.

Dean isn't kissing him so much as fitting their mouths together and breathing his own air between them. It's an endless back-and-forth that becomes almost soothing.

Cas doesn't notice that Dean's arms are wrapped tightly around him until he catches himself relaxing into the embrace. His head feels buoyant and light, and the warm breaths he shares with Dean are hitching heaves as they both come down.

Cas allows his eyes to slip closed as they stand there, suddenly exhausted from more than his orgasm.

He tries to pull away a few minutes later, his skin crawling as he realizes his soft cock is still out and pressed against the front of Dean's wet boxers.

But Dean frames Cas's face in his hands. He anchors him where he is with the touch, as if wordlessly begging for a minute more, a second more.

Cas feels naked, even though he isn't the one who was just on their knees in a dirty bathroom stall.

After they've separated and cleaned themselves up, Dean asks quietly, “Wanna come over tonight? Sam won't be home, and Mom's doing some online exam for work.”

Cas nods, trying to commit to memory the feeling of this, of his and Dean's bodies rocking together as they breathe in tandem.

 

_Maybe I do need._

*

It's not long after that Friday that Cas comes over to Dean's house in the middle of the night for the first time.

Dean is roused from a pleasant sleep by his phone vibrating until it falls off his dresser and onto the laptop in the chair a few inches below with a loud thwack.

Cas says only, _“I'm on your porch”_ before ending the call.

Dean rubs his eyes and blindly swings his legs over the side of the bed as quickly as he can. He isn't sure if Cas will knock on the door or do something equally noisy and obnoxious if Dean hasn't gotten downstairs to let him in within the next few minutes.

He creeps down the familiar carpeted staircase in record time and grabs the house key from the side-table left of the door. He unlocks it while praying that the click of the tumblers moving isn't as thunderous in reality as it is in his ears.

Cas says nothing as he steps inside. Dean can barely see the outline of his features in the deflected moonlight faintly streaming through the window behind him.

One the journey back up to his room Dean avoids crashing into things by virtue of his knowledge of the house alone. Cas isn't so savvy. He curses as he stubs his toe on what sounds like the coffee table.

Dean gropes for the other boy in the dark. When he finds Cas's hand he grabs it and holds it tightly, ignoring the hot rush of blood under the skin of his cheeks as he entwines his bare fingers through the leather-clad shape of Cas's.

Cas is breathing heavily, as if he's just run the whole way over. Dean wonders if he should ask him what's wrong, if he walked all the way over because his heater's still out, if his aunt even knows he's gone.

But he knows Cas won't tell him unless he wants to.

Cas follows him up the stairs. For a few seconds all Dean can hear is the mingled huffs of their breaths in the warm silence of the house.

There's sweat gathered between their palms by the time they reach his room, and it somehow feels more intimate than the times Cas has been inside him.

Dean can hear the metallic clink of Cas unbuttoning his jeans and slipping them off after the muted thump of his heavy boots hitting the carpet.

He feels something in the center of his belly twist. He's half-asleep, even now.

“I—I'm sorry—” Dean whispers as he steps forward blindly. His hands are outstretched. “I'm tired. But if you want, just give me a few minutes and...”

He finds Cas in the dark and is tracing his fingers over the other boy's chest, down to the waistband of his boxers and—

But Cas clasps his hands before Dean can go further, a quiet 'shhh' issuing from his lips. It's then that Dean notices Cas is just as tired as he is.

So he lets Cas crawl into bed with him, and the other boy falls asleep in less than five minutes pressed against Dean's back. The fronts of his thighs are molded to Dean's buttocks, his breath warm on the shell of Dean's ear and the back of his neck.

He's not even hard.

Cas smells like soap and cigarettes and winter air. Dean almost wishes he could turn around and face him. But he doesn't, afraid to move and break the strange spell of the darkness, the fragrant heat of his room and the silence enveloping them like velvet as outside the wind whistles through the barren tree branches.

Dean drifts off not long after.

At some point during the night Dean is awoken by the feeling of Cas's arms wrapping themselves around his waist as he sleeps. His fumbling grasp is loose and easy as he mumbles something Dean can't make out.

The next morning Cas sneaks out the back door and pretends to have arrived just then to go to school with Dean. No one in the Winchester household seems any the wiser that he spent the night in Dean's bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you liked this update! Please comment or inbox me on tumblr (I'm BlackDog9314 on there as well).  
> Oh, and if you can't view the original art I made for this story at the very top of the body of the text, here is a link =)  
> http://blackdog9314.tumblr.com/post/142804997334/my-take-on-a-young-pierced-cas-in-my-wip-flower


	15. Chapter 15

Cas knows he must have gotten out of bed and pulled on a pair of jeans in the cold darkness of his room. He knows he must have snuck past his aunt's closed door, must have let himself out and locked the dented front door behind him, must have heard the scrape and muted clang of the torn screen swinging back as he left. He knows he must have run down the crumbling asphalt of the streets near his house, must have seen it when they changed beneath his boots to the black, shining tar of a recent re-pavement. He knows his sides must have ached, knows his lungs must have burned as he stood on Dean's porch and raised the phone to his ear.

But he remembers none of it.

He only remembers how it felt to fall asleep beside Dean, to nod off smelling clean skin and soft hair with every inhale.

He only remembers the quiet that crept over him as he lay there in the dark, the almost euphoric absence of anything save for the uncomplicated act of being.

 

The next morning it had been gone, but that didn't erase that he'd felt it, as brief as it had been.

*

It's been almost three weeks, and Cas has made the late-night journey to Dean's bed every three or four evenings since that first time.

After the second instance Dean began leaving the back door unlocked so Cas could let himself in. At times the other boy is so quiet Dean isn't even aware he's in the house until he's halfway under the covers with him. His hands are warm and wide-splayed as he wedges himself between Dean and the wall like a cat.

Cas rarely says anything; sometimes when Dean murmurs a hello or a goodnight Cas makes a noncommittal noise in return. But that's the extent of it.

Sometimes they fool around when Cas arrives, but that's only happened twice. Neither time lasted long. For the most part, all Cas wants to do when he shows up is sink down beside Dean and sleep.

At school nothing's changed outwardly between them; in the mornings Dean drops Cas off around the back of the building so they aren't seen together, and thus far no one's noticed he's giving the angry kid from Oakland rides. They ignore one another when they cross paths in the hallway; Dean tries not to give his friends reasons to ask him if he's “seen Lisa”; Cas skips lunch in favor of smoking Pall Malls out behind the bleachers; Dean feigns indifference when Michael or Gordon ask if 'the freak' has been messing with him.

However, behind the closed door of a bathroom or a janitor's closet it's now become a habit for them to meet between classes and do what they don't do every other night in Dean's bed. They don't fuck during these interludes—no time—but they've become so in-tuned with one another's bodies that shaking hands and eager mouths are almost just as good.

After, they don't always immediately leave whatever room they've commandeered. At times Dean thinks that the longing to stay there all day, behind the safety of a door or the cool shadow of a drop-cloth, isn't just something he himself feels as they stand there together. It's easier when he and Cas are alone, when other people aren't around to look at Dean and assume they know exactly who and what he is. If he's deluded himself into thinking Cas feels the same way, he figures there are worse things to lie to himself about.

Sometimes, as the rustling sounds of people rushing to class seeps beneath the door, Dean catches Cas looking at him as if Dean is a machine he's in the midst of rebuilding from parts and he has no manual to reference.

It doesn't happen every day. It doesn't even happen every other day. But it happens often enough that Dean begins to wonder what it is Cas thinks of him.

So far he hasn't found the courage to ask.

Cas hasn't been to the Winchester house at a reasonable hour in a while, but Dean doesn't bother dwelling on this. If what he and Cas are doing now is handjobs and hickies in a broom closet before third period and silently sharing his bed four nights out of the week, then that's what they're doing.

Dean only wishes he knew why Cas doesn't want to sleep at home. But he's pretty sure he can hazard a guess as to the answer.

He hasn't been able to forget what the inside of Cas's house looked like the one time he'd stepped inside. It had been so cold. The Good Will furniture and church-donated carpeting had been only more yellow-tinged gray and dingy white to disappear into the winter nosing at the creaking door hinges like a starving dog.

He sometimes wants to stop Cas from wrapping his arms around him, from mumbling words that sound like Dean's name in his sleep.

He wants Cas to tell him that he sleeps in Dean's bed because it's too cold to do so in his own.

But if there's anything Dean's learned over the past few weeks, it's that Cas only ever says what he wants to, nothing more.

*

It's late January when Cas hears the polo-wearing tool three seats to his right talking about 'Dean W' and some girl named Hester, as if they're in middle school and gossiping is still a successful strategy for jumping a few rungs up the social ladder.

It's second period, and Cas has been wanting to shove a pen up one of his teacher's flared nostrils for the last half-hour. History has never been a subject he enjoys, and he's been on-edge since Dean dropped him off that morning. He'd been a few minutes away from texting the other boy to schedule some 'stress relief' when he heard the snatch of conversation from the other side of the room.

Cas finds himself listening as the guy laughs and tell his project partner that Winchester's spending the weekend with Hester for his birthday, that they've been on-again, off-again for the past two years, that it was only a matter of time, really. He sounds almost gleeful as he says the words, like he's vicariously enjoying Dean's supposed activities for him.

Cas is frozen at his desk as he processes the words. His dull pencil hangs in the air above the notebook he's been writing in.

He didn't know Dean's birthday was this month. He's never even asked Dean if he's seventeen or eighteen. He doesn't know his age, and it suddenly seems like something he should have learned before taking his virginity.

It hasn't occurred to him to dedicate so much as a thought to the possibility of Dean fucking other people. Now he wonders why he hasn't. They've never talked about any sort of exclusivity between them. They've never come close to discussing commitment or if either of them wants it.

And Dean has a reputation to uphold.

He hears the sound of his pencil splintering in his hands before he feels it. He tosses the pieces of wood and lead onto the floor beside his desk in annoyance, seeing that he's getting a few strange looks from other students and not caring.

He snaps his phone shut and shoves it into his pocket before he looks at the sheet of lined paper in front of him on the desk.

It's then that he realizes he's been trying to write a song for the past half-hour. There's a list of words at the top of the page above a few crossed-out intros.

_Green._

_Gold._

_Honey._

 

_Only a matter of time._

 

On his way home from school Cas throws a loose brick through someone's living room window and runs a few blocks so they don't catch sight of him.

 

The following night Cas means to ask Dean if he has plans for his birthday or if Hester's involved in any of them. But he ends up fucking him instead. It's the first time Cas has been inside Dean in weeks and the first time they've fucked when he comes over after sunset.

He has two fingers shoved in Dean's mouth to keep him from making too much noise as he mercilessly presses him down into the mattress with every thrust. Dean is trembling underneath him. The nape of his neck is damp with sweat against Cas's lips.

He hisses when Cas comes in him, no doubt unused to the feeling of it after how much time has passed.

Cas is well-aware that Dean hasn't come by the time he pulls out. But he makes no move to remedy it. He silently turns onto his side, facing the wall as he pretends to fall asleep.

When he feels Dean tentatively lay a hand on his shoulder, he doesn't let himself yield into the embrace. He gives nothing but his silence and the stone of his muscles. After a few minutes Dean moves his hand and turns away as well.

When Cas feels the urge to turn back around and tell Dean he's sorry, he reminds himself that Dean probably won't ever stop playing at being straight.

*

That Saturday Cas shows up at Dean's house without any sort of warning, call or text to foreshadow his arrival.

Dean's caught off-guard by the visit and lets Cas in without comment. It's not yet four o'clock and the first time Cas has been to the house during daylight hours in a month.

It's been almost four days since they've seen one another, even to share Dean's bed. He'd honestly begun to wonder if it was Cas's way of cutting him off, if the thought of an actual goodbye was a level he refused to sink to where Dean was concerned.

Cas's expression is unreadable as he takes a few steps past Dean into the house.

He's wearing the jacket he's never returned, and the sight of it on Cas's lean frame somehow makes Dean feel powerless.

Cas is a bright dart of fast-flowing water, Dean a muddied creek-bed.

Cas crosses his arms over his chest and casts a glance around the living room as if looking to see if it's changed any in the light.

Cas turns to face him. “Your birthday's tomorrow.” It's not a question.

“How'd you know?” Dean asks in surprise. He's fairly certain he's never mentioned his birthday to Cas.

“Where is everyone?” Cas asks him rather than answering.

“Mom's at work 'til ten, Dad's three states away, Sam's at Brady's,” Dean says, knowing now why Cas has come over.

The mixture of lust and disappointment that crashes over him shouldn't feel new after how often Cas has inspired this exact reaction. But it does, somehow.

As Cas inclines his head toward the stairs expectantly Dean thinks again of water, feeling as though he's drowning.

*

Cas stares at the back of Dean's neck as he follows him up the stairs to the bedroom he's not yet admitted to himself that he sleeps better in.

He's not sure what he thought walking over to the house would accomplish. He only knows that he did so partially expecting to discover both Dean and the Impala gone, off somewhere with Hester.

But Dean's wearing sweat pants and an old, hole-ridden t-shirt, his hair isn't styled, and he doesn't smell like expensive cologne or Old Spice deodorant.

If he's meeting up with someone, he's not doing it today.

_But what about tomorrow?_

Lost in these ruminations, Cas misses a step and stumbles forward near the top of the stairs. He falls hard onto one knee with a gasp he can't keep stifled.

Dean's hands are out and bracing him before he has time to steady himself. Cas looks up at him from where he kneels.

Dean's full lips are parted, his eyes wide as he looks back down at Cas.

This has never happened before.

“Are you seeing Hester?” Cas asks before he can think it through. His voice is strained and wavering when he most needs it not to be.

“Am I—what? No,” Dean actually looks affronted at the question.

Cas knows he should answer, should either nod his head or say something. But he does neither,

“C'mon,” Dean murmurs finally, cutting through the silence as he starts to pull Cas up from where he's still on one knee.

His grip is gentle. Cas breathes out shakily as he understands that he feels _relieved_.

He's so relieved he could cry.

When they reach Dean's room Cas shuts the door behind them, pushing Dean back onto his bed before the other boy can say anything.

*

Cas is loosening the elastic tie on Dean's pants and pulling them down alongside his boxers methodically. His movements are laced through with a fine tremor Dean can't remember noticing before.

“Cas, what's—”

He's interrupted when Cas finishes tugging his pants and underwear off and folds his body down over Dean's. He presses a stubbled cheek to one of Dean's at the same time that he wraps his fingers around his freed erection.

Dean exhales slowly at the feeling of Cas's face against his own, a chaste gesture that contrasts with the grip he's got on Dean's dick. When Cas has to withdraw for a moment to take the jacket off and undo his fly, Dean isn't able to resist the pull to reach out and drag the pads of his fingers over the pale musculature of Cas's torso. He can feel the rise and fall of Cas's breaths as he takes them.

“Missed this,” Dean says. At that moment he wants nothing more than to wrap his arms around Cas's neck, to pull him down and kiss the sharp planes of his cheeks and chin.

Cas doesn't respond verbally. But he takes one of Dean's hands and moves it down over his chest, slipping it into the waistband of his boxers and over the warmth of his arousal as it fills rapidly at Dean's touch.

Dean bites down on his lower lip to stifle a moan at the feeling of Cas slipping through the tunnel of his fingers. Beads of wetness gather at the tip, easing the slow, teasing pace Dean sets his strokes at.

Fifteen minutes later Cas is slicked-up and pressing himself to the furl between Dean's shaking thighs.

Dean's lying face-up on the edge of his bed. His legs are spread and drawn back over his elbows to allow Cas easy access.

He exhales as Cas begins to breach him, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back as he's stretched over Cas's cock inch by inch.

“Oh, fuck.”

He isn't sure who says it in that moment, so lost is he in the feeling of Cas slowly splitting him open. It burns because a few days have passed since they did this, and Dean likes it, wants it with everything he is as he feels Cas bottom out.

*

Cas thrusts shallowly at first, watching Dean's face below as his mouth falls open, as his eyelashes flutter with every movement of Cas inside him.

Dean has bags under his eyes. His hair is unwashed. His skin is tacky with dried sweat he hasn't rinsed off from the day before. He smells like sleep and has the chalky residue of toothpaste on one corner of his mouth.

Cas wonders how many people besides Dean's family have seen him like this and if any of those people have fucked him.

He doesn't want anyone else to see this side of Dean, this soft, painfully vulnerable thing who opens like a blossom in mid-afternoon sunlight.

*

Cas reaches a hand down to thumb at Dean's nipples, to trace the jut of his hipbones, to touch the side of his jaw as if he means to kiss him, though he makes no move to.

Dean's missed having Cas inside him, has missed it so badly. Cas feels perfect with every luscious jab into his body, the length and girth of him so achingly familiar now, so welcome and right. Dean wonders if there's something wrong with him for thinking so, for _needing_ it the way he's getting it now.

_Water over rock and no air in sight._

Dean mewls as Cas leans down low over him. Their damp chests touch as the taut skin of Cas's stomach is dragged over Dean's cock.

“I'm gonna—come—” Dean gasps. He can feel the sweet tension of it gathering at the base of his spine.

Before he can, Cas moves his hand to grab Dean's dick at the base, stopping the onslaught of his orgasm.

He doesn't stop fucking Dean, though. He pulls out slowly and plunges back in without warning.

Dean whimpers, “Fuck, please—”

“Say my name,” Cas says as he presses his lips to Dean's ear. The words are hot and wet against his skin. He punctuates the last part of the sentence with a deep thrust.

“Cas, please! Oh, shit—Cas!”

“Again,” Cas says as he draws back up. His chest is heaving with the effort of keeping a grip on Dean's cock and fucking him at the same time. His blue eyes are almost hypnotic in that moment as he looks down at Dean.

“Cas! Please, let me—oh, fuck—”

“Say it's only me,” Cas says. His voice is tense, then, as if he can't breathe.

“It's—only you! Fuck, Cas! Oh, god—just you!"

Dean's reaching up to grope at the side of Cas's face as the other boy fucks him even harder.

“You're fucking _mine_ ,” Cas says harshly as he doles out a particularly forceful thrust.

“Yours, no one—else's! Only yours—” Dean echoes. He closes his eyes as everything he's feeling starts to become overwhelming.

He's Cas's. He's Cas's and nothing else matters.

“No one else'll hold a fucking candle after me,” Cas breathes. It should sound like the arrogant posturing of juvenile pride. But it just sounds like fear.

Cas grunts and lets go of Dean's cock.

Dean comes with a loud, shaking moan that Cas swallows as he covers Dean's lips with his own. Cas kisses him with an intensity akin to someone trying to drain him of life force through his mouth.

Cas has never held him after, Dean realizes as they drop back down together on the bed. The other boy's arms are around him in a grip uncharacteristically tight.

But here he is, allowing Dean to press his head against Cas's chest as they gaze silently together at the ceiling.

“I don't want anyone else.”

Dean doesn't know he's said the words aloud until Cas turns his head to press a barely-there kiss to the top of his head in response.

*

The following day Cas sits in the drab living room with his aunt, the TV going as they both silently pretend to watch it.

Cas doesn't know why he made Dean say the things he did.

He also doesn't know why it's not bothering him more.

When Dean invites Cas over for his family birthday dinner a few hours later, he accepts without much thought.

Just before he steps outside to wait on the front porch for the Impala, his aunt stops him, telling him to wait as she goes back to her room to retrieve something. When she returns, she's holding a gray button-down that almost fits him. It has no holes, no stains, no re-sewn buttons or uneven hemming. Cas lets her button it, not finding it worth it to ask how she knew he was going to be doing more than hanging out that evening.

She pats him on the shoulder, smiling a little to herself at whatever Cas must look like then.

“Whose shirt is this?” Cas asks as he rolls the sleeves up to the joints of his elbows to disguise the fact that they're overlong.

His aunt doesn't answer immediately, but Cas waits.

“I was married once.”

Cas can tell that's all she'll say, and he thanks her and lets himself out.

 

That evening John Winchester is home, and Mary's wearing floral perfume as she greets Cas with a quick hug. If she finds it strange that Cas is the only friend Dean's invited to the house to celebrate with them, she chooses not to comment on it and offers him sweet tea instead.

Dinner is less strained than it's been in the past, and Cas has a sneaking suspicion that the reason for that is the glass of wine Mary keeps refilling to the right of John's plate. Dean's given a beer for the occasion, and John smiles at his oldest son and clinks his glass to the bottle Dean brandishes toward him.

After dinner, Dean opens a new car maintenance kit from Sam, a pair of jeans and an Ozzy Osborne shirt from Mary, and a card with a check for two hundred dollars inside from his father.

Through the haze of well-wishes, wine and comfort food Cas can feel John's eyes on him throughout the evening. He knows without asking that tonight won't be a good night to sleep over.

When John falls asleep in his recliner Dean tells his mother and Sam that he and Cas have to review graphing functions and the cosine feature for school. They head upstairs together not long after.

Once they're in Dean's room Cas finds himself standing in the center of it, staring out the window.

It's dark out, and quiet now that they aren't downstairs with the TV going and Sam keeping a running commentary on what he's doing in Science Club this week.

“My birthday was a few months ago.”

Dean cants his head to the side, confusion clear on his face, “I didn't know.”

“I wouldn't have taken anything you gave me, anyway.”

“Oh,” Dean looks down at his feet. “Yeah.”

“I just wanted you to know.”

Dean looks back up at him, obviously not sure how to respond.

Cas can hear his own heartbeat in the perfect silence that follows.

_B-beat. B-beat. B-beat._

“What are we?” Dean's voice is low, as if giving Cas the chance to pretend he didn't hear it.

Cas answers him honestly, tracking a shooting star with his eyes through the glass, “I don't know.”

“Does it mean something to you?” Dean is looking directly at him, fear dimming the whorls of gold around his pupils.

“Yes.”

The word feels as if it lifts a weight from Cas's chest, and he says nothing when Dean steps forward and wraps Cas in his arms.

“You're mine,” Cas whispers into the down of Dean's hair, the angled slant of his cheek.

Dean nods, a sigh wrapping itself around them as they remain wrapped around one another.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope very much that you liked this chapter! Thoughts and comments so very appreciated!  
> I also finally enabled my ask box on tumblr, so feel free to chat me up should you feel like it =)


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Misha posted his first snapchat, and what song happened to be playing in its background? If you guessed Flower by Liz Phair, you're correct! I personally took it as the universe telling me to get my shit together and finish the edits for this chapter, which includes fanart by the lovely [comics-and-manga-gurl](http://comics-and-manga-gurl.tumblr.com/) (for which I am so very thankful!).

The first time is an accident.

School's been out for almost fifteen minutes and Cas is around back of the gray stone edifice, sitting and smoking a cigarette on one of the benches near the edge of the courtyard. He's a few yards away from where the burn-outs gather together at lunchtime.

Dean's easing the Impala just beyond the fence surrounding the garden of concrete when he spots Cas. He's wreathed with smoke in the mid-evening light.

Dean honks his horn before he can convince himself not to.

Less than three minutes later Cas has jumped the fence and is in the passenger seat of the Impala.

*

At first it's only every two or three days that Cas comes home with Dean after school, and the stretches of time they share together are brief and quiet, like the few, scattered hours of sleep Cas still steals in Dean's bed when he has energy enough to make the trek back after nightfall.

Sometimes, though, Cas finds himself inventing reasons to justify going over more often, to stay until Sam needs to be picked up from a friend's or until Mary comes home from the hospital in her wrinkled scrubs.

Dean doesn't ask Cas to leave any earlier than he wants to.

*

Within a few weeks Dean's having to come up with excuses for Jo and Michael when they ask him to go with them to a party or the movies, and increasingly elaborate lies to tell his mother about the nonexistent class he and Cas share.

It's becoming harder to explain the Californian's almost daily presence at the house, though. The secrecy is wearing Dean thin and wan.

For days now, he's been having dreams in which he and Cas are caught kissing in his bed. Somehow, everyone on the football team and Dean's parents are in his room staring them down. They all begin to throw wads of paper and rocks and deflated footballs at Dean as next to him Cas indifferently studies the tattoos on his own hands.

When Dean calls Cas's name, a steel-sharp glance from the other boy wordlessly tells Dean that they both knew this would happen, that all they can do now is hightail it out the nearby window.

Cas always looks the way he did as he sailed over the fence in the courtyard when he crouches on Dean's window sill. His eyes are distant as the memories stored in his muscles do the work for him, and he springs forward without ceremony. Dean runs to the window after him, the breath knocked from his lungs as a rock hits him square in the back.

In the yard below Cas always looks up at him, two fingers crooked as he tells Dean to _come on, we'll run. They can't come where we're going_.

Dean is never brave enough to jump.

Dean always wakes up from these dreams with his skin itching and his heart pounding. On nights when Cas has snuck into his bed Dean turns and presses his face to the crook of Cas's neck, the bend of his spine. He wants to wake Cas up, but can't ever bring himself to.

His nightmares aside, however, so far no one seems to have noticed a thing, either at school or at home.

He and Cas don't so much as make eye contact with one another during the day, and John and Mary work often enough that they're rarely even home when Dean and Cas fuck and study and sleep behind his locked door.

For all the juggling Dean's been doing to keep whatever it is he and Cas are doing undiscovered, they don't talk about it among themselves at all.

Dean knows why, knows that the line they're dancing over together is better crossed in silence.

*

On Valentine's Day Dean pours them both pilfered shots of Malibu Black and sucks Cas's cock in the upstairs bathroom.

Afterwards, they take a shower.

Cas almost falls asleep as they stand there together beneath the warm water. Dean cards his fingers through Cas's wet hair, holds him up because his legs are still shaking from the orgasm. Steam fills their lungs.

Cas reaches up and wraps a hand around the nape of Dean's neck, stroking the short hairs there.

The water hitting the tile is music in that moment, even without words.

*

Dean watches Cas as the other boy turns away to grab his shirt and jeans, the musculature of his shoulders, the dark glossiness of his wild hair, the dimples on either side of the base of his spine.

Dean's been working on memorizing the words inked on Cas's back over the past week, and he thinks he's got most of it, now.

He wants to know what Cas would rather jump from a moving car than talk about.

Cas pulls his t-shirt on and turns around., catching Dean's gaze just before he averts it.

“What?” he looks almost self-conscious and wraps his arms around himself, his blue eyes trained on the floor.

It's so unlike Cas that Dean tells him the truth.

“Just you.”

 

A few hours later finds Dean in front of his computer, plugging the Spanish phrase into Google translate.

' _Una alma gemela nunca muere' → 'A soulmate never dies'_

Dean blinks once, twice.

_A soulmate never dies._

Had someone told him Cas believed in the concept of soulmates even last week, Dean would have laughed at them.

 

Later that night Cas silently climbs into Dean's bed, having let himself in with the key by the door out back.

Dean opens his arms and Cas crawls into them. His breath is warm on Dean's neck, the skin of his face soft against Dean's bare chest.

He can feel the raised letters of the tattoo beneath his fingertips as he runs his hands over Cas's back.

There's so much about Cas he doesn't understand. But in the darkness it seems to matter infinitely less than the way it feels when he lets Dean hold him.

 

*

Late February, a revised edition of the school calendar is disseminated to the students.

When Cas is given his copy in class he starts to crumple it halfway in his hand, fully intending to throw it into the nearby trashcan until he sees something that makes him pause.

Scheduled for April 15th is the GLSEN's Day of Silence.

Cas shoves the sheet of paper into his pocket, standing up from his desk soon after to go to the restroom. On his way out of the classroom he slams the door forcefully enough to rattle its frame and the single glass pane in its center. Even through the 1.75 inches of wood he can hear the surprised titters of the other students.

He knows when he gets back he'll likely be asked to spend the remainder of class in the library.

 

Later, Cas sits on the edge of Dean's bed.

A bright, caustic dart of red blooms and contracts behind his closed eyelids with every pulse of the headache he's been battling since his last period class.

He thinks Dean is downstairs talking to Sam, or maybe he's in the hall bathroom. Cas isn't sure. He doesn't even really remember the ride from school in the Impala.

When the homework packet he isn't looking at slips from Cas's hands onto the floor with a hollow flutter, he makes no move to get it.

“Here.”

Cas doesn't know when Dean came back into the room, or how long he's been kneeling on the carpeted floor in front of Cas, holding out the papers he just dropped. Dean's eyes look more gold than green in the low sunlight coming in through the slats of the blinds.

“You okay?” Dean sets the packet on Cas's lap when he doesn't take them himself.

Cas rises from where he's sitting on the bed at the question, letting the papers fall to his feet for a second time.

He takes the stairs two at a time down to the den before he notices he's doing so, crossing the room once he reaches it and stepping to the back door. He half-sprints to stand in the yellow-green grass that blankets the Winchester's back yard.

His feet are bare and only a little cold; Cas flexes his toes in the cool damp of the grass.

He can hear Dean coming up behind him.

*

Cas is in the middle of the yard.

He makes a strange picture there, his dark hair lifted from his scalp by the February breeze, the skin of his lean arms highlighted with stripes of gold under the diminishing sunlight.

He looks so young.

“Cas?” Dean approaches him slowly. He reaches out to touch the back of Cas's shoulder once he's close enough to. The touch is light, barely anything at all.

He's not expecting it when the other boy abruptly turns to face him at the contact.

Cas's blue eyes are drab, the familiar fullness of his mouth a compressed line beneath his nose.

Dean recognizes easily enough what Cas looks like when he's angry. He takes a few steps back, wondering if Cas's irritation is somehow his fault.

But Cas doesn't snap at Dean or make a move toward him. Instead he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a twice-folded sheet of paper. He presses it into Dean's hand.

“The school calendar?” Dean says once he's had a look at it.

A muscle twitches on the side of Cas's jaw as he takes the print-out back from Dean. He points to one of the last events of the school year.

Dean squints to read it: _GLSEN Day of Silence_.

“They've done it every year since 2013,” Dean says uncertainly.

Cas speaks at last, his voice hoarse, “It's a fucking joke.”

Dean shrugs, “I don't know, I thought it was supposed to raise awareness or something—”

“It's a bunch of straight assholes crying and feeling bad for one day over people they didn't give a shit about while they were alive. ' _Oh, I put duct tape over my mouth and got out of class, I must be making a difference'_. What the fuck does that actually do to help?” Cas is looking at Dean as if he expects an answer.

“Cas, I don't—”

“You don't know what I mean,” Cas finishes Dean's sentence for him before crossing his arms tightly over his chest and staring at him. His nostrils are flared, the cords in his arms taut.

Dean nods slowly, feeling the urge to get back inside the house before Cas can continue. But he doesn't move.

“Yeah, you sure as fuck don't. You've never gotten the shit beat out of you 'cause some Crip saw you with a guy in the wrong part of town. You've never gotten jumped, or had someone break into your house and take all your shit.”

Cas is walking toward him, and Dean can feel heat flooding his cheeks. He looks down at his feet. Cas is right and Dean wishes he wasn't.

“You don't know what I'm talking about because you're not _out._ ” Cas is so close Dean can feel the heat of his body.

“Cas—I—I can't.” Dean is shaking.

“Can't? Or won't?” Cas asks.

“My friends, my dad, they'd—I don't know...I _can't_ ,” Dean's voice cracks on the last word and he hates himself for it.

Cas turns away, closing his eyes and exhaling.

Dean's startled when the other boy suddenly slides to the ground, sitting cross-legged where he was standing seconds before.

Cas no longer looks angry; he only looks tired, like he wants to fall onto his side and sleep where he sits.

“I know you can't.”

Dean sits down beside him; he's still shaking and can't seem to stop. His knee touches Cas's.

“I'm gonna tell mom and Sam after graduation,” Dean says quietly.

If Cas wonders why Dean's father isn't included in the statement, he doesn't voice it.

A few minutes pass in silence as the two of them sit on the ground together. The sun sinks down beyond the fence.

“They had that shit back home, too,” Cas says at last.

“The day of silence?” Dean asks.

Cas nods. “Nothing ever changed.”

“It doesn't here, either,” Dean says.

Cas looks away for a second, “We got jumped a lot.” His voice is softer than Dean's ever heard it.

Dean thinks of Cas's tattoo. He wants to pull him close.

Instead, he says, “You're strong.”

“Not when I need to be,” Cas says, his voice so faint Dean almost doesn't catch it.

“Still stronger than me,” Dean says, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. He looks down at his bare feet, the frayed hems of his blue jeans. He tries to imagine telling John the truth; he can't.

“You're the best part of living here,” Cas whispers.

The words feel like an apology.

Somewhere in the distance, Dean hears the laughter of the neighbor kids.

*

Two days after that Dean helps Cas with a paper for his English class that's due the following day.

They're up until almost one in the morning messing with the formatting and creatively re-stating the same thing a dozen different ways, attempting to stretch Cas's meager two pages of material into four to meet his teacher's requirements.

Dean doesn't complain about the fact that Cas waited until the last minute to do it; he doesn't tell Cas that he's lucky Dean's willing to take the time to help him. He just works and adjusts and spaces until it's done. He has a half-smile on his lips as he clicks on the printer icon in the corner of the document.

After the printer hums to life in the corner of his bedroom, Dean stands up to retrieve the papers from its tray.

“Why are you doing this for me?” Cas asks when Dean hands him the papers.

He doesn't mean to ask.

Dean is obviously taken aback by the question; his eyes widen and his smile fades almost immediately. He opens his mouth once, twice, his lips silently working to find the right words.

“Never mind,” Cas says quickly, realizing he's just as afraid of the answer as Dean is.

*

Dean is surprised to learn that Cas loves to read, there are simply no books to speak of at his aunt's and he apparently has an aversion to the school library.

Cas will read for hours if it's something that appeals to him, and Dean doesn't comment on the books that conveniently go missing from his shelves only a day or two after the Californian's blue eyes have singled them out, after he's opened the book and asked Dean if it's any good.

Sometimes he rolls his eyes when Dean talks about one of them for too long, shoving the book back onto the shelf with an irritated exhale.

“It's just a book.”

But Dean thinks he might be lying when he catches Cas reading Brave New World on an unseasonally sunny Wednesday, his expression one of rapt interest.

“You like it?” Dean asks him, unintentionally startling him. Cas looks up at him from where he's sprawled out like a starfish on Dean's bed, the book open in front of him.

“I was supposed to read this in school, I think,” he says absently, one of his hands holding his place.

“Didn't want to?” Dean asks.

Cas doesn't seem to hear him. “I remember my teacher talking about Soma like it was some scary, new thing. But there're plenty of drugs around already that make you stop giving a shit, most of them are just illegal.”

“That's what's so scary about their society, the total apathy,” Dean says as he sits down on the edge of his bed, watching as Cas rolls toward him due to the shift.

“It's easier not to care,” Cas says quietly, his eyes distant as he turns his head to look out the window.

Dean doesn't say anything else on the subject, and less than an hour later Cas is inside him, making him forget everything that isn't immediate sensation, everything that isn't Cas, full and deep and somehow better every new time they do this, every time they twine together on Dean's sheets.

Dean moans softly as Cas grips his thighs to keep them immobile, pistoning his hips in a smooth, slow rhythm. Dean reaches down and wraps a hand around his own cock, gasping when Cas releases one of his legs to wrap his hand around Dean's.

When Dean comes not long after, Cas leans down and slips his tongue into the seam of his mouth as his cock twitches in their hands.

Cas doesn't hurt him anymore.

Dean's not sure when he stopped leaving their encounters without healing bite marks on his shoulders and neck, but it's been a few weeks since he's had to strategically position his shirt collars to hide the bruising evidence of their encounters.

Now Cas kisses him instead of tearing him apart.

*

It's been almost two months; two months of going home with Dean almost every day and of watching the world pass them by as they sit in the Impala and of Cas waiting for Dean after school so they can leave together.

Dean presses kisses to his temples when he thinks Cas has fallen asleep in front of his desktop. Dean smells like freshly-washed linen and holds on tightly to Cas's shoulders when he comes. Dean knows how to restore cars and used to do so with his father until John abruptly lost interest in the hobby a few years prior.

Dean talks about books the way most people their age pick apart sports plays and questionable tabloid articles. Why he's never taken an AP English class is a mystery to Cas. Whether it's a conscious action or not, Dean spends most of his time pretending to be someone without a mind, and Cas realizes a little more every day how much of a fucking shame it is.

He learns that Dean is usually the first to say that Sam's the brains of the outfit and he merely the brawn, but Cas is almost entirely ignorant of the literary terms Dean casually throws around like urban slang when they're alone in his room. If Cas asks Dean why he likes a novel or series as much as he does, Dean will go on a half-hour long tangent about plot vehicles and story arcs and prosaic language.

Now, when Dean talks, whether it be about books or Sam or school, Cas hears every word. He stores them somewhere near his lungs to be breathed in later, when he's alone and wishing he wasn't.

“I used to want to do cheerleading, not football. Then Dad said that kind of thing was for homos.”

“I think I want to be an English teacher one day.”

“Sam's always been the smart one. Just the way it is.”

“When I feel like shit, I reread the first Harry Potter book.”

“I missed you.”

Cas's heart starts to pound now and his palms to sweat when he runs into Dean in the hall, and passing him by without so much as a glance in his direction feels as if it takes more energy every time.

Sometimes, when he drifts off during one of his classes, Cas finds himself dreaming of holding Dean's hand in the cafeteria, or at the park in broad daylight or under the Winchester's dining room table like the children they are.

At the very least, Cas wishes he could say hello to him.

It's been almost two months of sleeping pressed up against Dean in a cramped twin bed and of getting four or five shallow hours of sleep a night and of Dean buying them coffee on the way to school so they can make it through the day.

Dean's taken to washing Cas's clothes when he brings them over so that Cas doesn't smell like stale cigarettes and sweat. He hasn't asked for his jacket back even though Cas told him last week it rarely gets cold enough to wear it anymore. He lathers and rinses Cas's hair when they have the house to themselves and can shower together. Cas almost drifts off beneath his gentle hands every time.

Mary is as kind to Cas as she's been since he first met her, even after she catches sight of his knuckle tattoos not long after Valentine's Day. When she's home, Cas usually takes a few minutes to sit across from her at the breakfast nook, chatting with her about work and school. She sometimes says jokingly that she wishes her own sons were as polite to her as Cas is, and Cas is surprised each time.

She always hugs Cas goodbye before he leaves to go back to his aunt's, and there are times that he has to force himself to step back and out of her arms.

John, when he's home, has stopped asking Cas impolite questions about his lip piercing and less-than-acceptable attire. While Cas would like to think that it's because John values Dean's friendships and wants to do right by his son, he's relatively certain that John has simply grown used to Cas's presence and no longer much cares about it.

Sam is kind and eagerly polite, Cas learns quickly. He and Dean don't have much in common beyond being a part of the same family, but are incredibly close. Sam has an obsession with all of the Law and Order series and is already telling Cas and Dean that he thinks he wants to go to Stanford so he can study criminal law. Sam's recently started asking Cas if Dean's done anything embarrassing; unbeknownst to Dean, Cas indulges his little brother with Dean's latest antics every time.

It's been almost two months of feeling normal.

Mid-March Dean discovers that he can come without a hand on his cock when he gets on top and fucks down onto Cas from an angle.

The first time he does it takes them both by surprise, and Cas has to reach up and cover Dean's mouth with his hand to muffle the startled scream that falls from his lips.

After that, it's his preferred position to ride Cas when they get an hour or two to themselves.

When Dean comes this way, he's the kind of beautiful Cas thought only existed in Tumblr blogs and porn stills; he's always bathed in the light from the nearby window, his tanned skin gleaming like copper or bronze. He moans with what sounds like desperation when his thighs begin to tremble from the exertion of his efforts, and he shudders quietly when he finally comes onto Cas's chest and belly, untouched cock jerking between his legs.

Cas always falls over the edge soon after, and he's made a habit of pulling Dean down onto his chest to wrap his arms around him and listen to the quiet gasps he makes as he comes back to himself.

It's been almost two months of feeling like somebody gives a fuck about him for the first time in years and of dreading the day they walk the stage and it all ends.

*

Spring Break feels as if it arrives unexpectedly, creeping up on Dean and the rest of the student body like the old ivy covering the south end of the gym.

Jo insists on having everyone over to her house the first day of the break, and Dean makes a point to show up. He brings a pitcher of sweet tea and a delivery pizza to make up for what a shitty friend he's been over the past few weeks.

Jo is so obviously thrilled to see Dean that he feels guilty; he doesn't even wipe off the lipgloss-slick kiss she leaves on his cheek the way he usually would.

Michael and Gordon clap him on the back and grin widely at him when Dean crosses the living room to greet them. They're clearly as excited as Jo to see Dean outside of the lunch period they share every other day.

“What'cha been up to, man? It's been weird not seein' you around,” Gordon asks almost wistfully.

“Uh, y'know, just been taking care of Sam. No one's been home lately and he's gotta have someone around,” Dean says with a self-conscious scratch to the back of his reddening neck.

Lying to his friend's faces makes him feel incalculably worse than spelling out excuses via text ever did; the worst part is that the reason he's currently giving them is one he has in years past. The key difference between then and now is that _then_ it had been the truth. More than once in Dean's life he's had to shuttle Sam to and from school, do their laundry, make both of their lunches and cook dinner for days on end because Mary was working extra shifts to pad the family savings account and John was gone even more frequently in the early years of his job. His friends know this, so there's little chance they'll disbelieve him.

But as guilty as it makes him feel, Dean figures it's better than telling them the truth. He knows they love him now. What Dean isn't sure of is whether they still will if they were to find out what he's been doing in empty classrooms and in his own bed with Cas. He knows only that Jo wouldn't understand why he chose Cas of all the boys in their school, and that Michael and Gordon would likely be repulsed by his preferences.

Dean's seen his football buddies be cruel to the openly gay kids around the school for no good reason other than their sexual orientation. He's seen Michael push Aaron into his locker for having the audacity to wear eyeliner; he's seen Gordon throw Charlie's lunch in the trash because she was wearing a rainbow-patterned cardigan. Hell, they were only too happy to jump Cas because Dean told them that the guy had been _looking_ at him funny.

As much as he's gone through with the two of them, Michael and Gordon aren't what Dean would call nice people. The thought makes Dean's stomach churn, because watching them now, as they smile at him and tell him that they've missed him, one would never know it.

Dean knows they'll find out one day, after he's left Houston and his own lies behind. Word will get back, and Dean will hopefully have grown up enough by then to realize that there are some things people will never understand, even if they once loved you.

But it won't be today.

Today, Dean is sitting on the floor of the Harvelle den with all of them, eating pizza and swigging tea, and Cas is at his aunt's catching up on sleep none the wiser to how much Dean wishes he was able to ask him along, how much he wishes he could put an arm around Cas in public the way Michael's doing to Jo.

*

Cas wakes up sweaty and shaking next to Dean a few nights into their Spring Break.

He's grateful when Dean only stirs a little beside him, sleepily wrapping an arm around Cas and pulling him back down under the comfort of the covers.

Cas feels fear swell in his belly as he lies there, shaking in the arms of someone warm and real and _fine, just fine_.

He'd dreamt of Isaac. More specifically, he'd dreamt of the day Isaac died. But instead of the brown-eyed boy Cas loved in California falling away from him, it had been Dean.

Dean's eyes had not closed, even when Cas begged for them too.

Cas had scrabbled for quarters on the sidewalk, had pressed the dirty coins to Dean's freckled eyelidsto weigh them down.

He'd been crying, crying so hard he could barely breathe. One hand had clutched at the flowing cut behind his ear and the other had been flat on Dean's still chest.

_No, no, no, NO._

Beside him, Dean sighs in his sleep and presses his nose to Cas's neck.

 

*

Dean purloins a small bottle of Jim Beam from his father's liquor cabinet on the second-to-last night of their break and texts Cas to meet him over at the park. It's not the first time they've hung out after dark at the familiar spot this break, but it'll likely be the last before school resumes again in two days.

It's almost one in the morning on a Friday, and Cas arrives in record time.

The approaching silhouette of his lean figure is almost completely concealed beneath the nonexistent lights of the park and a moon half-concealed by clouds.

Dean stands up from where he's been sitting in the red and yellow plastic playhouse attached to the slide to lean out and beckon to him. He's unable to keep a smile from his lips as Cas makes his way over.

Dean's day, though spent mostly with his brother and pleasant enough, was entirely uneventful. He'd been waiting for hours until the second he could throw open the door and step out into the humid night, and now he's here, his skin singing as its tickled by warm wind, the smell of wet grass filling his nostrils, and the mineral tang of condensation on his tongue.

It feels like summer tonight.

“I don't want to go back to school,” Cas says in way of greeting as he joins Dean inside the diminutive structure. He has to crouch to fit under the child-sized frame of the door, and once he has, he wastes no time sitting across from Dean.

Though Dean's eyes haven't adjusted enough to see Cas's face in the low light, he already knows what he likely looks like from the blase tone of his voice.

“I'll drink to that,” Dean says solemnly as he holds up the 375ml bottle.

“Where'd you get the booze?” Cas asks as Dean twists the cap off and hands it over.

“My dad buys a few every month for himself, doesn't religiously count 'em as far as I can tell,” Dean says in explanation as Cas thanks him with a nod for the first sip before taking a swig and handing it back.

They sit like that for almost an hour, sipping mid-range whiskey and reclining on the warm, sticky seats of the playhouse. They're hidden from the eyes of anyone who might happen by on the street beyond, and nothing but the moonlight makes its way into the scant space between them.

Dean's not sure about Cas, but he's pretty buzzed. The bottle's almost half-gone and Cas has a small smile on his lips, which is such a rare occurrence that Dean's tempted to pull out his cellphone and take a picture of him. One of Cas's knees is bent upward and supporting an elbow, and his dark hair is longer than it's ever been and framing his angular face. His blue eyes seem to flicker when the moonlight hits them, like a flame dances somewhere at the base of Cas's skull, fed by the whiskey.

“I was gonna come over tonight,” Cas says as he picks at a thread protruding from a hole in his jeans.

“Yeah?” Dean asks, lowering the bottle for a moment.

“Before you texted,” Cas elaborates.

“Oh.” Dean says.

“I sleep better with you,” Cas says with a shrug.

Dean scoots over so that his thigh is touching Cas's, soaking in his body heat like the liquor they're still passing back and forth.

*

The noise is sudden and loud, and the high beams that shine into the playhouse for a second or two are enough to startle Cas into partially standing up.

The car screeching by outside runs over something that cracks and pops beneath its tires, and the sound resembles that of a gunshot as it rips through the silence of the night.

Dean puts a hand on Cas's shoulder, and he's laughing.

“Sounds like they ran over a bottle or something.”

Dean is still talking, but Cas isn't listening, now. He can hear the car as it drives away; its tires screech and it hurts Cas's ears.

He turns to Dean and focuses on his mouth, trying to pick apart the words coming from it as he wonders if there's much glass in the road, who was in the car that made the sound that cracked the quiet.

*

Cas keeps looking away from him, but Dean gets him to sit back down after a few seconds.

Soon the park is quiet again, but Cas seems as if he's listening to something Dean can't hear; his blue eyes are wide where they were half-lidded before, his leg bouncing nervously.

Dean pushes the bottle back into his hands, “Here, Cas. Chill, man. That crap happens all the time at this park on the weekends.”

Cas takes it from Dean without answering. He hefts the bottle into his lap and nods, not apparently not having noticed that he can drink from it again should he wish to.

“One time, I was here by myself when I was sixteen with a six-pack a friend bought me, and I got the shit scared out of me when—”

Dean is interrupted by the sound of voices echoing over the black of the pavement beyond the park's borders.

*

Cas can hear them approaching.

They're quiet now, but he knows they won't be for long.

He turns to look at Dean, who's smiling and rolling his eyes at the noise. He wants to grab his hand and drag him away from the park; in his mind he can hear the sound of the bottle popping beneath the burning rubber.

His skin feels like it's stretched too tight over his body, and he grabs at Dean's hand on his shoulder, holding it tightly.

The voices grow louder every passing second.

*

Dean admits to himself that he likely shouldn't have assumed that he and Cas would be the only people making use of the badly-lit park tonight. It's an ideal spot for minors to drink or smoke in peace, and it's still Spring Break, even if there're only a few more nights of it after this.

By the sound of the voices and childish, clomping footsteps, whoever it is is walking toward the playhouse.

They're loud, and Dean can hear their laughter and the rustling of their breaths from where he sits. One of them laughs raucously, a high-pitched guffaw that makes Dean wince.

Beside him, Cas is perfectly still, his free hand motionless where it's flat on his knee. The pose looks almost defensive, and Dean quickly tells him that they should probably book it back to the house.

He's dismayed when Cas says nothing and lets go of the hand still on his shoulder, His face is eerily blank under the moonlight as he slowly stands.

“C'mon, Cas, we gotta ditch the bottle,” Dean says.

He's not sure what's happening, but he wants to leave the park as soon as possible.

He doesn't see that Cas has drawn the small knife from his jeans pocket until the bright silver of its blade is flipped out. The closed fist that holds it is stiff with tension, the skin over the knuckles white.

“The fuck are you doing, Cas?” Dean hisses as he stands up beside him.

Cas's stance is rigid as he holds the knife by his side, ever-watchful as the group of people draws still nearer in the dark.

Any moment now, they'll arrive.

Dean feels his stomach lurch as Cas slowly moves toward the small door, knife still brandished.

“Cas!”

*

Cas can still feel the alcohol burning its way through his throat, his blood.

He knows he should feel anger, but he only feels afraid.

He has a fucking utility knife and there is more than one person walking toward them and Dean is behind him and Cas can only protect himself, not both of them. He doesn't even have the chain on him to wrap around a neck or an arm.

The crack of the glass when it sounded like the world coming apart plays on repeat in his head and he is afraid.

*

Cas doesn't respond to his name, and Dean wishes abruptly that he hadn't drank so much of the Jim Beam. He feels nauseous and hot, and Cas's name is bulky and stupid in his mouth.

Cas's shoulders are noticeably tense, his lips parted and his breaths quick, now.

Dean can actually see the small group of people now as they continue to make their way over, apparently oblivious. He was right in his knee-jerk assumption earlier; they're obviously high schoolers. They look around the same age as he and Cas. All three are guys with oversized caps and skater shoes. One of them has a brown paper bag in one arm, and his other is inside a baggy denim pocket. Cas seems to be fixated on him.

He prays one of the three strangers doesn't catch sight of Cas's knife and call the cops.

“They probably just want a place to chill!” Dean reaches out and tries to pull the knife from Cas's hand. The Californian is shaking visibly, and Dean has never seen him like this before. He can't tell if Cas is about to run toward them or away.

But at the attempt to disarm him, Cas turns and shoves Dean back so forcefully that he's propelled back into the bench they recently vacated within the playhouse. His side takes the brunt of the fall, and Dean's bounced back hard onto the ground with the ferocity of the action. He winces and grabs at his ribs as a stabbing pain lances through them.

At the sound of Dean hitting the wall the voices of the three teens quiet almost instantly, and after a few seconds he hears one of them say what sounds like, “Fuck this!”

Then come the scurrying sounds of them sprinting back into the darkness, paper bag rustling in the middle guy's arms as they do so.

Dean exhales shakily and moves his hand numbly over his side. He doesn't think he's all that seriously hurt, but can't tell for sure so soon after.

He silently watches as Cas flips the blade of his knife down and gets to his knees beside Dean.

He doesn't look like himself, somehow. His fire-blue eyes are farther away than Dean's ever seen them as the other boy reaches out to touch him.

Dean pushes him away, bristling with anger and alarm fueled by the pilfered whiskey.

“What the fuck was that, Cas?” Dean whispers furiously. His side is throbbing.

Cas doesn't answer, he just tries to ruck Dean's shirt up to get a better look at his ribs.

“I'm fine,” Dean snaps, rolling away from Cas and regretting it as another dart of pain shoots through his side. “Fuck!”

When Dean gingerly rolls back over, Cas hasn't moved and he looks shaken.

“I—I'm sorry, I just...I couldn't—”

“They weren't gonna hurt us,” Dean says shortly.

“All the noise...I didn't—I had to make sure they—” Cas cuts himself off, crossing his arms and looking away from Dean to the night sky beyond the tiny door of the playhouse.

“This isn't Oakland,” Dean says tightly.

As soon as he's said it he knows what a mistake it is.

What little color Cas's face was regaining immediately bleeds back out, and his mouth works soundlessly.

Dean hears the sound of Cas's pocketknife dropping onto the ground beside him with a soft _thwump._

“Cas, I—”

“It just takes one time, Dean,” Cas's voice is so quiet Dean can barely make out the words.

“What are you talking about?” Dean asks. The absolutely stricken look on Cas's face is sending shivers down his spine.

“One _fucking_ time and everything, everything you have, everything you—you are—” Cas's voice wavers violently and he briefly trails off before speaking again.

“Doesn't matter if it's happened before. Everything can end in a second.” He snaps his fingers to emphasize the last word. The sound echoes eerily through the night.

“Cas, are you—”

“I'm leaving,” Cas says tightly. He stands up stiffly.

“Cas, c'mon. Let's just go back to the house,” Dean says to him from where he's still lying on the ground.

Cas doesn't argue the way Dean expected him to.

Instead, he helps Dean clamber up from the ground before wordlessly draining the rest of the Jim Beam and throwing the bottle on the ground.

He watches it shatter into pieces with an almost disturbing intensity.

*

The walk back to the house is strained and quiet.

When they arrive Dean lets Cas take his hand and guide him up the stairs in the unlit house, even though they both know it's unnecessary at this point. Cas doesn't realize that he's squeezing Dean's hand tightly enough to hurt him until Dean hisses softly and tries to move his fingers. But he doesn't shake him off, and Cas almost wishes he would.

*

They both crawl into Dean's bed at the same time, wrapping themselves around one another with barely any space left between the two of them. Cas has both arms circled around Dean's neck and one leg slung over his hip, and Dean's face is buried in Cas's hair while their torsos are pressed so tightly together that every breath strains his bruised side.

Cas is trembling so hard his teeth are chattering and Dean wishes he knew why.

The silence is overwhelming between them, but they both try to sleep anyway.

Dean can tell that neither of them are able to drift off as one hour passes, then another.

The ticking of the clock on his wall becomes a thunderous thing.

But, just when Dean thinks he might be able to slip into an uneasy slumber, Cas pulls Dean out of the stickiness of semi-consciousness by pressing him onto his back and straddling his hips.

Dean gasps as his bruised side is jostled by the movement, and he tries to turn his face away.

But Cas cups his jaw and brings him back, pressing his lips to Dean's at the same time that he brings a hand down and covers his sore ribs with a painstakingly gentle touch.

Cas is kissing Dean softly, more softly than he ever has before. His mouth almost feels like it's not there at all, but Dean can faintly taste cigarette smoke and the fading sharpness of the whiskey as Cas coaxes his mouth open.

Cas's hands feel as if they're everywhere, now. He's dragging his thumbs over Dean's nipples, lightly cupping the slight curve of his belly, tracing the outsides of his thighs with his forefingers.

A few minutes pass before Cas reaches down between Dean's legs. He's already half-hard from the slow, easy touches and the warmth of Cas on top of him as he presses him down into the bed.

But Dean's not sure that this is what they should be doing tonight, not after—

Dean's thoughts stutter and stop as Cas pulls away and begins to move deftly down the line of his body. He pulls Dean's boxers off without preamble before lowering his head and pressing his lips to either side of Dean's abdomen, to the skin below his hipbones. He takes care to avoid putting too much pressure on the tender right side.

The warmth of Cas's breath on the skin of Dean's exposed hips and belly is soothing, a slow lull.

Dean doesn't know he's falling asleep there, splayed-out the way he is, until Cas suddenly takes him into his mouth for the first time. There's no warning, no tentative touches or swipes of Cas's tongue before he's sucking on the head of Dean's cock.

Dean arches up in surprise, crying out weakly as the pain in his side mixes with the sensation of Cas's hot, wet mouth between his legs.

Cas wastes little time with build-up. His movements feel almost frantic as he starts to work Dean into the 'o' his lips form, and it's better than anything Dean's ever felt before as Cas swallows him down as far as he can take it.

The slick sounds of Dean's cock slipping in and out of the suction of Cas's hollowed cheeks are almost obscene in the precarious quiet of the rest of the house.

Cas has never done this for him before, and it feels perfect. 

“Cas—oh, shit,” Dean whispers.

When Cas runs the tip of a finger around the entrance to Dean's body, he almost comes then.

But before he can, Cas draws back up to kiss him again. Dean has never tasted himself on Cas's lips before, and the fact that he can now makes his cock twitch as he licks into the other boy's mouth.

Cas is rutting against Dean's bare thigh, and the denim of his jeans is rough on Dean's skin; Dean reaches down to cup Cas as well as he can through the fabric.

Cas doesn't ask for permission as he unzips his pants and pulls his cock through the slit in his boxers. He reaches over Dean to grab the lube from his dresser drawer and pops the cap off, slicking himself up in one or two movements. A broken gasp falls from his lips, and Dean is spreading his legs and grabbing at Cas's arms. 

He wants Cas inside him, wants to forget how afraid he was earlier and how little he understands about the person he's let into his heart.

When Cas obliges him, Dean lets out a strangled gasp of relief and fear. It's been a while since they fucked like this, with Cas taking control and pushing into Dean from above.

But Dean feels like he needs it this way, like _Cas_ needs it this way.

He cries out as Cas doles out a particularly deep thrust, digging blunt nails into Cas's arms. Dean doesn't notice or care that he's mostly naked while Cas still has his jeans and t-shirt on; he just wraps his legs around Cas's waist and his arms around his shoulders, keeping him as close as he can in the suffocating silence and the dark.

It doesn't feel good, but it feels _right_.

Dean is strung tight, a throbbing mass of nerve endings, and Cas is fucking him hard, now. One hand is on Dean's injured side so as not to forget its existence.

When Cas wraps his fingers around Dean's cock, it only takes a few strokes to make him come.

Cas finishes not long after, and he slips out of Dean with a gentleness that makes his chest tighten.

He lets Dean enfold him in his arms again; he's still trembling.

“You scared me,” Dean murmurs into Cas's hair once he's caught his breath.

“I didn't...want anything to happen to you.”

“It did,” Dean gestures to his side in the dark, knowing Cas can feel the movement through his body.

“I know.”

“You...you can't do that, Cas.”

“I know.”

Cas feels so small.

Dean struggles to reconcile the shaking boy in his arms with the one who was ready to threaten three random people with a knife.

They fall asleep less than an hour later, nothing more said between them.

 

 

When school begins again on Monday Dean is in the process of dropping Cas off out back of the building the way he usually does.

He's not expecting it when he gets a phone call from Jo. They still have ten minutes until classes start and he has no idea what she could want to talk about right now, but he answers anyway.

“Dean, is that you?”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Did you just give that asshole a ride?”

Dean's heart plummets into his stomach as he spots Jo across the courtyard, her long hair a trail of gold in the wind as she stares at him. Her mouth is open in surprise and her phone is pressed against her ear.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "there's a bluebird in my heart that  
> wants to get out  
> but I'm too clever, I only let him out  
> at night sometimes  
> when everybody's asleep.  
> I say, I know that you're there,  
> so don't be  
> sad.  
> then I put him back,  
> but he's singing a little  
> in there, I haven't quite let him  
> die"  
> -Excerpt from Bluebird by Charles Bukowski
> 
> Please leave comments if you enjoyed this; I honestly need them right now.


	17. Chapter 17

There are times when Mary Winchester wonders if Dean has been hit one too many times with a football, or sustained some sort of long-term damage from when he and Sam used to rough house with one another as children.

Well, perhaps that's an exaggeration. But there are definitely times when Mary wonders why her oldest son seems to think she's blind, deaf, or both.

The first night she was awoken at almost two in the morning for no obvious reason, she assumed she'd been roused by the wind buffeting the side of the house, and fell back asleep within a few minutes.

The second time had been similar to the first, and Mary got up and closed the curtains, hoping it would in some way muffle the noises she assumed woke her up.

The third time, however, she'd sat up straight in the king-sized bed she still isn't used to having to herself most of the time and _really_ listened. That time, she'd focused not on the outside of the house as she had in the past, but on the inside.

She'd heard the quiet scritch-scratch of footsteps, the faint rustle of hushed voices, the distant creak of bed springs shifting and depressing as weight settled upon them.

The noises had been coming from down the hall, meaning that there were only a few possibilities: her sons were either awake and talking to each other, or one of them had somehow snuck someone into their room.

Mary had figured then that the chances of Sam or Dean having a late-night visitor were slim, so she'd gone back to sleep hoping that whatever it was her boys were talking about, they would work it out soon.

After the fourth time, however, Castiel's convenient early-morning appearances at the house began to make more sense.

Mary loves her sons more than she could ever try to convey in words; Sam is kind and has an ardent sense of justice, of right and wrong and _who_ exactly deserves mercy even in complicated situations. He's followed Dean around like a lost puppy for most of their lives, but his science-minded group of friends has helped him come out of his shell and break away somewhat since he transitioned from elementary school. Mary hoards like dragon's gold the time she manages to leave the hospital early and spend the evening with her youngest. Lately, Sam's taken to recording procedural cop shows so that they can watch them together, and she hasn't the heart to tell him that those are her least favorite kind.

Dean is entirely different from his brother, though. Mary knows with a keen certainty that her eldest has never felt comfortable in his own skin the way her youngest does.

Dean has always been her baby; even after Sam was born the nickname never died.

Dean grew up loud and inquisitive and bright. It was a different kind of intelligence than the kind Sam possessed; while Sam was watchful and quiet, thinking and theorizing in his mind until he knew _exactly_ what he thought of something or what he wanted to say, Dean would keep a running commentary on everything he saw and did as it occurred. Unlike Sam, who preferred more intellectual activities even then, Dean loved to take things apart and catalog them before putting them back together. Until Dean was eight or nine, John thought the sun shone out that boy's ass.

Things changed as Dean grew older, though. When and what, Mary still doesn't know exactly, but somewhere along the way Dean stopped talking and John stopped expecting him to.

By the time Dean started high school he'd become taciturn and awkward at home, but the pictures in his yearbooks invariably showed Mary a very different version of her son, a version of him that smiled like his life depended on it and wrapped his arms around pretty blonde cheerleaders.

Sometimes, Mary thinks it's better for everyone that John is so often away.

She knows Dean better than he likely knows himself. She knows that his favorite colors are blue and purple and that he rarely wears them. She knows that his favorite hobby is reading and that he only does it in the privacy of his room. She knows that he doesn't particularly enjoy football and that he joined the team to please John. She knows about the half-dozen college applications he sent out in the mail the month previous and why he hasn't told anyone about them. She knows that her son isn't straight, and that he probably isn't even bisexual or 'questioning'.

She knows that she's caught Cas looking at Dean the same way John used to look at her.

Cas reminds Mary of a child she met in the hospital a few years back; the little boy had been in the pediatric ward receiving intravenous fluids and recovering from a severe concussion given him by an alcoholic mother.

He'd been incredibly quiet the few days he was there. Every time Mary had come into the room he shared with a few of the other children, he would look at her with eyes startlingly intense for someone his age.

He never once asked her for anything verbally, but as soon as Mary situated herself on the edge of his bed to check him and his IV bag or adjust its drip, he would reach out for her with both arms.

She sat with him sleeping against her side more than once, giving as much time as she could spare out of her demanding day to hold him and hum whatever song happened to be stuck in her head.

The last time she saw the little boy, he'd been in the midst of the young social worker assigned to his case. They'd been gathering the few things he'd brought from home in preparation for his discharge.

Mary had hugged him briefly before they left, and had pretended not to see the tears running down his face as he was led away. She's never forgotten him, not for a single day.

One thing she's learned over her almost two decades of working where she does, is that one can spot an abused or neglected child if they only know what to look for.

The first time she met Cas, she could tell that his life hadn't been a happy one.

It's clear to Mary that Cas is damaged. From what, she's not sure, but she suspects enough to be concerned. She's aware that it's not her place to tell Dean this, and that he more than likely knows, himself. Perhaps he's even privy to the whole of Cas's story, but Mary doesn't think so. She'd bet money that Cas is a lot like her husband, closed-off and afraid of his past and the pain still stagnating there like mosquito-ridden trough water.

But even John eventually let Mary in, if for no other reason than that he loved her.

She doesn't know if her son and Cas love one another.

Mary only hopes that Dean is mature enough to understand that Cas isn't like everyone else, because she knows that teenagers see things differently, and often don't see them at all until it's too late.

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: parts of this chapter feel distinctly non-con to me, or at the very least very wrong. None of the people who have read it agree, but I wanted to put it out there on the off-chance that it wasn't me being paranoid.

Jo is standing motionlessly beside one of the many benches in the courtyard. Even over the distance that stretches between them Dean can make out the astonishment in her eyes.

She's not the only one apparently rooted in place from the suddenness of the situation; beside the still-open passenger door of the car Cas has come full-stop. His bag hangs loosely from one arm as he warily eyes Dean's best friend from across the swathe of dirty concrete. It's clear that Cas isn't sure if he should make himself scarce or stay where he is.

Making the decision for him, Dean turns to Cas and briefly inclines his head toward the double doors beyond the fence.

Cas doesn't have to be told twice. In a matter of seconds he's scaled the chain link and swept past Jo into the school, obviously giving her as wide a berth as he can. But Jo doesn't spare Cas so much as a glance as he passes her; all of her attention is still on Dean.

Dean's free hand is clamped so tightly over the Impala's steering wheel that it's starting to go numb. He can hear the faint, fluttering sound of the mid-morning breeze echoed in the phone connection.

He's been friends with Jo long enough to know that she's willing to wait forever for his answer if she needs to.

Dean's heart pounds as the seconds tick by.

Jo's free hand is anchored on her hip, her heart-shaped mouth pursed.

Dean's reminded vividly of how she used to do the same thing when they were children; _Dean, that's MY race car. Dean, it's MY turn to choose morning cartoons. Dean_ —

“Dean, are you gonna tell me what's going on?” Jo's asking.

Dean exhales tiredly, “Look, Jo, it's a long story. Can we talk about this later? I still gotta go park.”

“You mean it?” Jo asks quickly, never one easily mollified by platitudes.

Dean nods. “I do. I promise.”

Jo's light eyes are narrowed.

“Just...don't mention this to the guys, please? At least...not to Michael. Okay?”

Dean knows from the lilt in his voice that it's obvious he's pleading with her, and doesn't care. All he knows is that his friends _can't_ find out right now.

If they ever can.

Dean hears the static-y punch of Jo ending the call, and watches her as she shoves her phone back into her pocket and passes through the same pair of doors Cas did not five minutes earlier.

_Fuck._

Dean drives the Impala around to the front of the school to find his usual parking place, his phone in his lap and his thoughts racing.

*

Cas is restlessly carving a hole in the fake wood of his desk, drained when first period hasn't even reached its halfway-point.

He stares without seeing at the blackboard at the front of the room, at the onyx surface swiped with chalk residue and the ghosts of literary terms he's never bothered to write down. He hasn't had to; the entirety of this semester Dean's been helping him with his English assignments.

Cas notices that his hands hurt and looks down to see that he's balled them into fists in his lap.

Cas wishes he could convince himself that none of this matters; that if Dean were to march into the classroom right this second and tell him to fuck off forever, that he'd chosen Jo and their friendship over Cas, he would be perfectly fine. Better than fine, even.

But it's a lie.

When he feels his phone vibrate in his back pocket he grabs it immediately and opens the text message blinking on its display, knowing already that it's from Dean. It's not as if anyone else has contacted him in recent memory.

' _We still on for tonite?'_

Cas doesn't text back immediately, but his free hand loosens itself in his lap.

At the front of the room the teacher begins to scrawl something over the faded imprint of the word 'allegory', her nails red and slick under the ugly, white lights.

*

Lunch period is tense when Dean, Michael and Jo take their usual spots near the back of the crowded cafeteria.

More than once Dean catches Jo shooting him meaningful glances from across the table. He spends the entirety of his lunch trying to focus on whatever it is Michael's saying to him and pretending he doesn't see Jo studying him like he's a new exhibit at the local zoo.

Luckily, Michael doesn't seem to notice much beyond the incredibly obvious considering he has a test the following period and has his textbook out for a last-minute review. From beside him, Jo languidly pushes a pile of greasy linguine around on her tray, her eyes locked onto Dean's.

He prays for a food fight to break out, or for the smoke alarm to go of, anything to get him out of this room and away from the youngest Harvelle.

When the bell finally, blessedly, rings, Dean's more than ready to leave, and stands up so quickly from the attached bench seat that he jostles his tray and overturns the half-full carton of milk still sitting on it. It immediately begins to spread, soaking into scattered brown paper napkins and seeping beneath cheap, styrofoam trays. It only just misses Michael's book and Jo's purse.

“Shit! Sorry,” Dean mumbles as heat floods his cheeks. He reaches for the napkin dispenser a few feet away, seizing a handful and shoving it down into the center of the mess.

Michael gathers his things, an exasperated grin on his face at Dean's mistake as he tells them he has to get to class. Jo leans forward to give Michael a kiss on the cheek.

Dean distractedly wishes him luck on his test before returning to the puddle of white still covering the burnt sienna of the table. He's startled when Jo grabs a clump of napkins herself to help him wipe away the rest. She even grabs the sopping pile and takes it to the trash for him, after.

“Thanks,” Dean says awkwardly when she returns to the table.

“Welcome,” Jo says quietly.

Dean can tell that she, for the second time today, is waiting for him to speak.

“Later isn't right now, okay?” he says at last.

“When, then?” Jo asks, her arms crossed and her chin thrust up.

Leave it to Jo to be just like her mother when it comes to 'important talks' (Dean's still getting over that time Ellen basically intimidated him into admitting that he took Jo out driving after dark when he was fifteen and only had a learner's permit).

“Call me this weekend and I'll come get you. We'll talk,” Dean says after a few moments of dead air pass between them.

Apparently finding his words more sincere this time than she did the last, Jo nods and slings her bag over her shoulder and disappearing into the swarm of exiting students.

Dean stares after her, hands still sticky with milk.

 

That evening, his mother is gone from the house for a reason other than a night shift at the hospital.

It's such a rare occurrence when Mary says she's been invited out for drinks with her girlfriends that her sons insist she go and enjoy herself. She emerges from her bedroom at a quarter to six, smelling of soap and perfume with her flax-colored hair curled and piled on top of her head.

“You look great, Ma,” Dean says as he steps forward to fasten the clasp of her necklace for her.

“You boys'll be fine alone here? I know I said last week I'd be here tonight,” Mary says as she adjusts the silver chain around her neck.

“Yeah! Cas can make us more spicy noodles for dinner!” Sam says excitedly.

The week before last Cas improvised with lime, chili flakes and Ramen and made a dish that's apparently Sam's new favorite thing, and he's been waiting for a legitimate excuse to have it again since.

From beside Sam, Cas nods resignedly.

Mary briefly hugs all three of them after she's put her shoes on and given herself a once-over in the hall mirror.

“Don't have too many appletini's,” Sam says haltingly, obviously trying out a word he read in a book or magazine.

“Don't be silly, Samuel. I prefer whiskey,” Mary says with a small smile.

Dean leans forward and gives his mother a quick peck on the cheek, her skin soft and powdery beneath his lips from the makeup she's put on for the occasion.

The three of them wave her out the door.

Soon after, Cas empties most of the Winchester's spice cabinet to make Sam's chili Ramen and a few butter-fried eggs.

Dean finds himself standing beside the other boy as he mans the stove, doing whatever Cas needs him to as they've taken to doing some nights when Mary isn't home and Dean doesn't feel like ordering pizza or coming up with something on the fly.

It still surprises Dean sometimes that Cas doesn't mind cooking, and, even more, that he's _good_ at it.

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean says quietly as the Californian divvies up the potful of noodles into three equal servings.

Cas doesn't respond.

The three of them situate themselves on the sofa in front of the TV to eat and watch Buffy reruns.

It's Sam that finishes his food first, and he thanks Cas profusely before retreating upstairs to start on his homework.

The space between himself and Cas on the couch feels monumental without Sam there to fill it. Dean tries to focus on finishing his noodles, but he can feel Cas's eyes on him.

“Does she know?”

Cas's simple question comes without preamble or introduction, cutting through the sounds of Buffy drop-kicking a vampire to the ground.

Dean slowly sets his fork back down into the bowl and looks over at Cas. “No. I, uh, told her we'd talk this weekend.”

“Are you gonna tell her?” Cas asks, his eyes trained on the greasy yellow broth swimming in sky-blue ceramic now that Dean's looking at him.

It's the second time they've acknowledged whatever it is that they do together.

“I don't know.”

Cas puts his bowl down on the coffee table without comment, and Dean wishes, as he has before, that he could ask the Californian what it is he's feeling and get an answer. But past experience tells him he won't, so he doesn't bother posing the question.

When Dean reaches for him, Cas offers no resistance. Dean wraps his arms around the other boy, pressing his nose to the hollow of his neck. He smells like soap and something sweet and dark, like the soft brine of summer skin. Dean doesn't usually touch Cas like this, not in the light, not before they've fucked and Cas is loose-limbed and almost soft. Usually.

But Dean doesn't know what else to do and something dark is curling in his belly, a formless dread that this moment is doing them irreparable damage. Cas is stiff in Dean's arms and his breaths are quiet, so quiet. He doesn't move away, and he doesn't lean into the touch the way he has in the past. It feels wrong; Cas is never passive or still like this, like too much movement will break something between them.

Though he doesn't want to, Dean finds himself thinking about graduation, about a summer that will pass faster than a breath and the emptiness he knows he'll feel once Cas is no longer part of his life.

Cas is here _now,_ he tells himself.

Maybe he needs to stop wishing for more.

Shouldn't _now_ be enough?

When Cas abruptly turns his head to kiss him, Dean realizes that it never will be.

“I'm sorry,” Dean gasps into Cas's mouth when he feels a callused hand snake beneath his shirt to get at his skin.

Cas pushes him down and frames Dean's face between his hands, and Dean knows why, knows that Cas feels the wrongness of this moment, too.

“Doesn't matter,” Cas says harshly as he takes Dean's lip between his teeth.

He suspects that Cas is lying, but whether it's to himself or Dean, he's not sure.

Dean closes his eyes and lets Cas kiss him, feeling something swell beneath his skin that isn't lust, isn't desire and isn't peace.

After that, they don't talk about anything.

*

When Mary off-handedly asks Cas what his plans for graduation are on Wednesday evening, he doesn't answer her immediately.

It's seven-thirty and they're in the kitchen preparing meat and vegetables for cooking while Sam and Dean vacuum and straighten the living room a few yards away.

Cas knows that the question is a perfectly reasonable one, and one that he mostly knows the answer to; he graduates high school in less than a month and a half, and he'll probably wind up working construction, making okay money while he scouts Craigslist for a roommate that doesn't look like an axe murderer and never encountering Dean or his family again.

The thought makes something heavy settle in the center of his guts.

Cas has taken a paring knife to a pile of green onions, and beside him Mary is dressing pieces of chicken for the greased glass dish at the ready beside the stove for baking.

“It's fine if you don't know yet,” Mary says kindly, mistaking his silence for uncertainty.

From the den Cas hears Dean laugh at something Sam's said to him.

“I do. Know, I mean.” The words shape themselves on Cas's lips of their own accord.

Mary tilts her head in obvious confusion, her pale blue eyes caught in the deep gold of the sunset outside. “Oh? What?”

“I'm going to work construction,” Cas says, the clump of green onions still clasped in one of his hands.

He waits for a polite non-response, for Mary's expression to turn knowing and closed-off.

But it doesn't. Instead, she nods sagely and says, “I took you for the sturdy type. You'll have to let me know how you like it. John worked construction for years, right up until Sam started preschool.”

She passes him a handful of rinsed carrots, and Cas can't help but smile as he takes them.

The smile fades from his face as he abruptly thinks to himself how much he's going to miss this.

*

Around noon that weekend Jo calls and asks if Dean wants to go for a walk with her through the wooded area out behind her neighborhood.

Within the hour Dean's in the Impala and on his way over to Jo's, feeling as if he might be sick the whole drive there. The familiar two-story red brick house should be a comforting sight as he pulls into the driveway and parks, but it isn't, and guilt swarms through Dean's already-upset stomach over the knowledge.  
It's Ellen who answers the door when Dean knocks, and she greets him with a smile before pulling him in close for a hug. She smells like sun and bug spray, and Dean can tell she's been out back in her garden.

“Been a while since I've seen you, Dean-o. Wish I'd been home for y'all's shindig over the break.”

“Yes, ma'am, I'm sorry. I've been busy,” Dean says as Ellen releases him and turns to call Jo's name.

Jo shoos her mother away when she emerges from her bedroom in sweatpants and an old tank top, and Ellen bids the two of them a fond goodbye before returning to the backyard.

“Hey,” Jo murmurs as she sinks down into the chair by the door to pull her tennis shoes on.

“Hi,” Dean says, a little awkwardly. He's shaking.

Not five minutes later he and Jo set off together, weaving a familiar, worn path between the houses and shallow ditches until they reach where the subdivision ends, where the long shadows of the trees darken the green furls of grass spilling out over the edge of the woods. They've been coming here since they were children, watching over the years as the small patch of undeveloped land slowly grows even smaller. They know their way around it well, and as they pass a few of their favorite spots Dean thinks fleetingly to himself that he should bring Cas here at least once, before the last of his and Jo's memories are taken up into the placid jaws of urbanity.

They walk in silence for almost ten minutes before Jo ventures the first words that break it.

“Alright. Spill.”

Dean sighs heavily and kicks at a rock with the toe of his shoe.

“What do you want to know?” he asks cautiously.

He winces as Jo socks him in the shoulder.

“Don't pull that shit with me. Tell me what's going on,” she says warningly.

Dean exhales; it was worth a try. Before he speaks he plants his feet firmly on the ground, willing his heart to stop its anxious pounding and hoping that the tremor in his limbs doesn't bleed into his voice.

“Okay, well...Cas and I...we—we hang out.” The sentence is neutral, almost meaningless in its wording.

Jo's response is immediate. “Why? He's not a nice person.” Somehow, she makes it sound much simpler than it is.

“He's a friend of mine,” Dean says.

Jo lets out a disbelieving scoff. “C'mon, Dean.”

“I'm serious. Once you get to know him, he's different.” Dean internally winces at how juvenile he sounds.

“Yeah, different from someone who picks fights for fun and comes to school hungover?” Jo asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Dean says firmly. “He can be a dick, but...I think that's mostly 'cause of how he grew up.”

“I don't see why that's an excuse for him calling me a bitch.”

“It's not,” Dean readily admits. The memories of his and Cas's first interactions are still ones that make him cringe.

“Is he nice to _you_?” Jo asks. A shaft of sunlight falls onto the high arch of her cheekbone as she looks up at him.

“He is now,” Dean says softly, a half-smile turning up the corners of his mouth.

“How often do you see him?” Jo asks.

“About as often as you see Michael.”

Dean says it slowly, afraid of what Jo will say to _that_. He kicks at another rock, noting that he's shaking again.

Jo turns to look at him, then, and something seems to change in her expression as she processes what he's said. Dean's hands curl into fists at his sides.

“So, you guys are...close?”

“We are.”

“Do you give him rides every morning?” Jo asks quietly. From the careful way she phrases it, Dean can tell she's probably already guessed the truth. Hell, she might even be trying to give him an out if he decides at the last second that he can't tell her.

He can feel her eyes seeking his out, and he looks away, nauseous heat flooding his body.

Dean pictures his heart, wrapped tight with threads of silver wire, cords that cut and twist and tear until he can't breathe, can't think.

This is it.

He can tell her that was the first time he ever drove Cas anywhere, or he can tell her the truth.

He hopes he isn't making a mistake when he chooses the latter.

“Only after he stays over.”

In his mind, Dean sees the silver threads splitting and breaking, letting his red heart go. He feels as if he breathes freely for the first time since Jo saw him with Cas a few days before.

Jo's eyes widen, and she raises a hand to place it unconsciously over her heart. “Dean, you don't mean—”

“I do.”

“ _You_ like guys?” Jo asks a little incredulously.

Dean knows she's thinking of the many girls he's taken home and doesn't begrudge her her doubt; he simply nods.

Jo's mouth is hanging open; she looks confused and taken aback, but she doesn't look angry. She isn't staring at Dean like he's disgusting or like she regrets being friends with him most of her life.

“But...why him? Out of everyone, why _him_?” She's standing directly in front of him now, pieces of blonde hair falling into her face.

“I don't know,” Dean says honestly. “I've never been able to tell him no.”

“Is he your first boyfriend?” Jo asks softly.

“He's not my boyfriend,” Dean says immediately, a knee-jerk echo of the very thing that he forces himself to acknowledge almost every day.

“He's not? Then what—why is he staying over?” Jo asks.

“I don't know,” Dean says again, but it's an obvious lie, and he can tell from the gentle way Jo's looking up at him that she can guess what he isn't saying.

As much as it pains him to admit that Cas is nothing more than a fuck-buddy, the sheer relief that Dean feels at _finally_ being able to tell someone is almost overwhelming.

For months, he's bent over backwards to keep this very moment from unfolding, and yet, now that it has he thinks he might come tumbling down like the house of cards he and Cas have trapped themselves in. He wants to tell Jo every detail he can possibly remember, from the way Cas feels when he's wrapped in Dean's arms to the Spanish tattoo on his shoulder. He wants to sit down on the dirt beneath his feet and blurt out the sordid details of every encounter they've ever had and ask Jo if she can divine a pattern that he can't.

“Do you love him?” Jo asks the question suddenly, as if the possibility has just occurred to her.

Dean doesn't notice that he's started to cry until he feels Jo's arms around him.

“You're okay,” Jo murmurs into Dean's ear as if he's a child.

“I don't know what to do,” Dean says. He can taste salt on his tongue when he opens his mouth.

Jo rubs Dean's back as they stand together in the woods, the sunlight slotting through the tops of the trees making a home in the centers of their bones.

 

The following night Dean gives Cas a selective rundown of what transpired with Jo.

Cas only shrugs and nods, his expression one of casual disinterest as he looks at the novel still open in his lap.

Dean only knows he isn't still reading it because his eyes have stopped moving.

It's only hours later, as they lay pressed up against one another in Dean's bed, that Cas asks, “How does it feel? Being out to someone?”

It takes Dean almost five minutes to think of an answer that conveys his feelings, and when he finally responds, he's sure Cas has fallen asleep beside him.

“Like I'm...real.”

Dean's surprised when he feels Cas's lips as they're pressed gently to his shoulder.

*

The following week John Winchester is home for a few nights, disrupting what's become a fairly consistent routine for Cas where his time after school is concerned.

Though he knows he'd be more disappointed if Dean hadn't told his father he had a study group to attend and driven over to Cas's almost every night, instead.

His aunt is still working at the Dollar Tree most weeknights and usually doesn't return until ten or eleven, and so far she's still none the wiser to Dean's visits to the house in her absence, not that Cas thinks she would much care even if she found out.

This particular Wednesday, he and Dean are out in the shoddy back yard together, looking over the trash-strewn land beyond and the pothole-ridden road to the left.

It's late March and the sun is out, shining down on them with a blithe warmth that feels out of place where it falls over the dingy, faded gray wood of the house and the yellowed grass flattened beneath their feet. They ventured outside so that Cas could smoke a lone cigarette he found behind his bed, and now they're standing together against the side of the house. Cas's head is tilted back as a breeze dances over his skin. He can feel Dean's shoulder pressed up against his, right where it was before Cas looked skyward.

“Do you like it here?” Dean's voice is strangely sharp in the stillness.

“This house, or Texas?” Cas asks without looking toward him.

“Both.”

Cas isn't sure what prompts him to be honest. Perhaps it's that he's not looking directly at Dean.

“It's better than where I lived in Oakland.”

“With your dad?”

Cas nods his head, “My sister, too.”

“Is she like you?” Dean sounds genuinely curious.

“Just a half-sister, technically. So, no. Not really,” Cas says as he finally looks down at his feet, thinking of Anna, curled up on a sunken sofa struggling to open a baggy with shaking hands. He wonders briefly if she's still living with Chuck or if she's finally left to try and scrape by on her own, disappeared into the maw of the streetcorners and those who frequent them.

But Dean is still talking.

“D'you miss her?”

Cas doesn't know what to say. The question stings. So he doesn't, and Dean continues to ask him questions, anyway.

“What's it like? In California, I mean? Is it a lot different?” Dean is looking at him when Cas lowers his head and drops the ashed cigarette to his feet, crushing it with his heel.

Cas has to think for a moment. In his mind it feels as if California is a universe away from Texas rather than the 1700 miles it is in reality.

“Different like night and day. It's...uh, the weather's better, for one. None of this hellfire heat bullshit. And...people mostly keep to themselves. Not like here, where people smile and wave when they don't know you. No one pulls that shit back home unless you want someone to think you're hitting on 'em. Food's better there, too. Everything here's fried or tastes like shit. And it's easier to get around in California, too. Got the Bart and everything.”

When Dean looks at him questioningly, Cas elaborates. “It's a train, basically.”

“Like the subway in New York?” Dean asks.

“Kinda, yeah.” Cas shrugs. He's not sure why Dean suddenly cares about his life in California.

“Did you go to the coast a lot?”

“Yeah,” Cas says quietly. “I miss the ocean.”

It's an understatement of epic proportions; Cas dreams about the ocean almost as much as he does of Isaac. Whether the weather his mind conjures up is blinding sunlight, pouring rain, sticky humidity or clear, arid skies, the water is always cool beneath his feet, blue-green and buoyant the way he remembers it to be. It carries him downstream like a river sometimes in his dreams, until all he can see on all sides are walls of blue and white foam and clouds so dense he loses track of where he's going and where he came from, if he's rising or falling, sinking or sailing.

“Was there anything you _didn't_ like?” Dean asks, his green eyes bright as the fading light snags on their centers.

Cas shakes his head after a short deliberation of the query. “I didn't even mind the tremors. I guess you don't notice 'em after a while. I don't know.”

“You, uh...think you're gonna go back home when you graduate?” Dean's voice is low now, and he's looking straight at Cas.

His shoulder is pressed so tightly against Cas's that it begins to hurt, and Cas wonders if it's been like that the entirety of their conversation or he's just now noticing it.

He takes a step back from Dean, feeling cornered.

He hasn't really been thinking of his post-graduation plans, not seriously, at least. He hasn't wanted to ( _can't, can't, won't_ ), and he's not interested in starting now. But Dean is clearly waiting for an answer; he's standing with his back braced against the dirty house, his chin thrust up and his jaw clenched.

“What's with the Twenty Questions shit? I don't fuckin' know if I wanna go back or not,” Cas mumbles.

He's lying. He doesn't want to go back to California, to Isaac's grave and a city without the Winchesters in it. He'd rather work a shit job in this shit town and wait for the slim to nonexistent chance that Dean will walk past his house so he can remember that once, he had that, once, he had Dean.

He's waiting for Dean to tell him to stay, to say that he wants Cas to wait for him to come home and visit during the summers or any number of stupid, meaningless things that would make this moment in time hurt less than it does.

But he doesn't, and Cas almost laughs as Dean bids him goodbye and leaves soon after that, his expression unreadable.

Cas stays where he is for a long while, leaning against the house as the sun sets and the stars poke through the navy blue of the night sky above.

He tries to convince himself that he's not disappointed.

*

No matter how often Cas leans in and kisses him for no reason other than he wants to or because he can, Dean still isn't used to it.

Cas kisses him before they go to sleep, sometimes, his mahogany-colored hair falling to frame Dean's face in the darkness. He kisses him as he passes him in the bedroom after getting something from one of the desk drawers. He kisses him as they stand together in the shower, bodies soft and eyes half-shut from exhaustion.

It's not the way it was even a few weeks ago; they don't always kiss with an end-goal in mind, now. It's not just as they writhe together in bed and pull their clothes off piece-by-piece, or right after they've finished and are still clinging to one another as they ride out the aftershocks.

Now, they make out on the couch like regular teenagers when no one's home, lazily and as if they have all the time in the world.

But it doesn't change the fact that they don't.

They have less than two months until graduation, and no amount of kissing will slow the days and lengthen the nights until it all comes to a screeching halt.

Dean is sure Cas will drop him like a bad habit once school lets out, that the kisses mean nothing in the end, no matter how sweet and slow and good.

Cas will have no problem finding someone new to keep him entertained once Dean has chosen a college and left town. That he would want to be with Dean after it stops being convenient is something Dean heartily doubts.

So, sometimes, Dean has to pull away, or push himself to the side. Sometimes he has to stop inhaling Cas's recycled air and remind himself that he breathed before this boy, he will be able to breathe after him.

Sometimes Cas looks hurt, disappointed, even, and it makes Dean's heart sink even as he wonders why the other boy even cares.

*

The following Monday Cas finds himself accosted by none other than Dean's friend, Jo.

It's not long after school lets out in a mostly-deserted hallway, and Cas is halfway to the courtyard to jump the fence and wait for Dean out back when he has to stop for her as she emerges, seemingly from thin air, and plants herself directly in front of him.

Seeing Jo now, it's hard to believe that only a few months back she cried in front of their entire precalculus class and looked anything other than perfectly self-possessed and sedate; right this very moment she's somehow succeeded in staring Cas down even though she's a good half-foot shorter than he is.

“What do you want?” Cas asks her guardedly, wondering if she's managed to fool Dean into thinking she accepts his orientation, only to come and accuse Cas of 'turning him'. It wouldn't be the first time that it's happened to him, and he doubts it'll be the last.

“I'm here to talk to you,” Jo says evenly.

“About?”

“You know what,” Jo retorts, and Cas has to admit that he appreciates her directness.

“What's up?” he acquiesces, switching his bookbag to the other shoulder in an effort to stand still more comfortably.

“Whatever you and Dean are doing, you better be doing it 'cause you give a fuck about him,” she says bluntly, extending her pointer finger and poking Cas hard in the center of the chest with it.

Cas isn't expecting that, and he draws back a step or two at the invasion of his personal space. He doesn't even notice that he's gone far enough to collide with a locker until the cold, hard jut of a combination lock digs into the small of his back.

“I don't care if he's into guys. What I care about is _you_ not hurting my best friend.” She emphasizes her words with another jab of her finger into Cas's chest.

Jo's intimidating for such a petite girl.

“Does Dean know you're doing this?” Cas asks.

Jo shakes her head, “No, and you're not gonna tell him. This is between you and me.”

“I don't know what you want me to fuckin' say,” Cas tells her irritably. He feels slightly sick.

“I want you to tell me you care about him,” Jo's tone softens just the slightest bit.

Cas looks away for a second. He knows Dean likely didn't give Jo much in the way of specifics about their encounters, how Cas took advantage of him and his inexperience. Things have changed since then, obviously, but only because—

Cas cuts off his own train of thought, not wanting to follow it down into the rabbit hole he's been shoving all the rest of his feelings into for months.

If Jo had any idea how Cas had treated Dean at the beginning of their whatever-the-fuck-it-is, he doubts she'd be giving him the benefit of the doubt the way she is.

“Do you?” Jo asks.

The question stings in a way it shouldn't.

He's not a nice person, and Jo doesn't seem to know this.

Cas feels his chest tighten and nods, so slightly he knows he'll be lucky if she can see him do so.

Jo studies him for long time, the space between them feeling as it it shrinks by the second.

“Just...promise me you'll do your best,” she says at last.

Cas feels his heart sink, thinking all the while that it's not likely Dean who has to worry about getting hurt.

Not anymore.

*

It's a Thursday in late March when Sam, Dean and Jo discover that Cas can play guitar.

It happens when the four of them are in the process of cleaning out the Winchester garage as per Mary's instructions.

They come across an old acoustic guitar Sam got for Christmas a few years back, hidden beneath a pile of old holiday decorations that have somehow escaped their mildewed cardboard enclosures. Considering that most of what they've unearthed in the garage over the past hour or two has been either old newspapers, unused fitness implements from the nineties or a wealth of deteriorating Halloween decorations, the instrument is a random and truly impressive find.

“Wow! I totally forgot about this thing!” Sam says with a laugh as he picks the guitar up and blows the dust from the lacquered blonde of its wooden surface.

“Gee, imagine that. You begged for it for months until Dad bought it for you, just so you could learn one song and then get bored,” Dean says with an eye-roll as he takes it from his little brother's hands. He turns it over once, twice, looking for imperfections or areas in which the wood might have warped. He's surprised when he doesn't see any, and wonders how it's escaped them for the years it's been sitting, unused, in alternating swatches of sweltering heat and frigid cold with nothing but old tinsel and decaying garland to keep it safe.

Jo cackles a laugh from beside them at Dean's words, and then abruptly begins to cough after inhaling some of the disturbed allergens plentiful in the stale air.

“Why am I not surprised?” she finally manages after her coughing subsides enough for her to speak.

“Hey, iron lung,” Sam says indignantly. “I thought it'd be cool at the time.”

“It's called asthma,” Jo responds snappily before turning to Dean. “The Good Will or sell pile, I'm guessing?” she asks. She has a streak of dirt across one cheek, and Dean is about to nod and tell her yes when Cas steps up beside them.

“Can I see it? The guitar, I mean,” he asks Dean, a distant look on his face.

“Sure,” Dean says as he hands it over without much thought.

He's already turned back to look at Sam and Jo, instructing them to get a move on to the other side of the garage, where more piles of junk await them. They've been making good time, and he'd like to finish the task before it gets too late.

Cas has fallen back into one of the recently-cleared parts of the room to tune the guitar, and the tentative sounds of plucking and discordant test-picking echo in the small space while Dean, Sam and Jo continue to go through the piles of crap and old boxes stacked in the far corners.

When Cas begins to actually play something, Dean is so surprised that he stops and listens.

It's a bright and clear and simple tune.

Dean doesn't know what it is, but he wants to hear more. Jo looks as shocked as he feels where she's paused beside him, straightening up from where she'd been crouching to better hear him. Sam is grinning at the sound.

“Way to go, Cas!” he calls out gleefully to his brother's friend.

Cas hums something that isn't really a response at Sam's cheer, his face downturned as he focuses on the instrument he's holding. He has the dusty strap draped over his shoulders, and it looks almost as if it belongs there on him.

“I didn't know you could play,” Dean says as he moves back across the room to stand beside the Californian.

“In another life,” Cas says softly as he clumsily finger-picks one of the prettiest things Dean's ever heard. From the careful, almost wooden way he plays it's clear he's getting accustomed to doing so again after time spent away.

“What is that?” Dean asks.

“Something I wrote a while ago.”

Dean is amazed. The melody is soft and lilting, like the sleepiness of Spanish guitar music or a lullaby. It sounds like sunlight or liquid gold, nothing like the music that Cas looks up on Youtube when Dean's trying to study, not like angry nineties punk or effusive, sappy Bachata or R&B from the early 2000's.

It sounds like tentative happiness, drowsy joy unfurling with each bright blip of the chords.

“Does it have a name?” Dean asks.

Cas looks taken aback at the question, but answers anyway, “Brown Eyes.”

He seems sad then, suddenly, and he puts the guitar down and goes back inside the house without another word.

Dean means to follow him inside, but Sam calls him over and he forgets to.

 

That night, when Cas comes into Dean's mouth after a long, slow blow job, he lets out a gasp that sounds like a sob, his hands tight in Dean's short hair and his legs trembling.

He lets Dean wrap him in his arms after, falling asleep with his head snugly fitted into the crook of Dean's neck, his hands still tight and tense where they're wrapped around Dean's.

*

The same night that a summer lightning storm flashes across the sky in bolts of white and blue, Cas binds Dean to his own headboard with a tie worn once to a long-forgotten funeral. Green eyes follow Cas closely, warily, as he straddles Dean's hips.

Dean isn't used to having his hands restrained, and is at first clearly uncomfortable with the idea, if his guarded expression and drawn limbs don't make his misgivings obvious enough. But he doesn't ask Cas to untie him, nor does he ask him what he plans to do. He merely watches as Cas touches him everywhere, his eyes sharp and observant until Cas wraps a hand around Dean's cock. Then, they slip closed.

Sam is away at a friend's and Dean's parents are having a much-needed night to themselves at the nearby Marryott Hotel; Cas wants to take his time tonight.

From beyond the window the smattering of the rain on the street outside is mindless white noise, and Dean slowly begins to relax as Cas strokes his dick and drops wet, open-mouthed kisses to his chest, his belly, the tip of his cock.

“Fuck,” Dean breathes, trim sides heaving as Cas suckles him, one finger tracing the warm entrance to his body while another draws teasing circles on the inside of his right thigh.

Cas knows what Dean likes, knows what makes him lose it, and he pulls every move he's taken note of over the months they've been fucking. He opens Dean slowly with both his fingers and his tongue after pulling off of his cock.

The other boy's thighs are spread wide, and his wrists and ankles twitch every time Cas presses his tongue and his fingertips into Dean. He does so leisurely enough that near the end of it Dean is a step away from begging, Cas can feel it in the way his body pulses around his fingers, in the bottomless dark of his wide eyes as they follow him again.

“Cas,” Dean implores, tugging at the tie and only succeeding in tightening it around his own wrists. His skin is pale beneath the lightning streaks, the golden brown of it almost white now as Cas turns his head to press a kiss to the inside of a thigh. Dean's body is soft and warm, and for a stupid second Cas aches at the endearment these things inspire in him.

By the time Cas lines himself up with Dean and begins to enter him, the other boy is curling his hips upward for it, wrists straining in their confines by the headboard.

Cas fucks Dean slowly, deeply.

Lightning slashes across the sky beyond the window, and Dean is sheened with sweat and shaking like a leaf, his body jerking with each flash of light that illuminates the quaking planes of his chest, that make shine the perspiration dripping over the washed-out tan of his skin.

“Cas, please—” he says futilely.

“Shhhh,” Cas soothes, punctuating the sound with a deep thrust that makes Dean moan loudly.

“ _Fuck_ , Cas. Please—touch me—ah—”

The darts of lightning look almost like the flash of a camera, and Cas imagines that each one makes of Dean a photograph he can keep with him forever.

A bright green eye. _Flash_. A broad, well-muscled shoulder. _Flash_. The tip of a pink tongue as it darts out to wet full lips. _Flash_. A freckle-dusted cheekbone.

 _Flash_.

When Dean wraps his legs around the small of Cas's back, he bears down on the other boy, trapping his neglected cock between their stomachs for the first time that night. Dean exhales sharply and loops his ankles together, locking eyes with Cas as he finally gets what he's been waiting for.

“Fuck, Cas!” Dean chokes out. “Fuck...”

“You're mine,” Cas says lowly as he reaches up to cup Dean's face in his hand, pressing a thumb between his lips. As Dean sucks on the digit Cas begins to fuck into him faster.

“ 'm yours,” Dean says around Cas's thumb, his expression rapt enough to make something tear itself loose in Cas's chest.

He thinks of Jo's words without meaning to.

How silly they seem, now.

As if he could have ever done right by someone as beautiful as Dean.

Cas tries to feel anger at Dean for being somehow both one of the smartest people he's ever met _and_ dumb enough to give Cas the time of day. He tries to feel satisfaction at the thought that he was the one to take Dean's virginity. He tries to feel relief that the first person he's given a shit about since Isaac has no idea what darkness lies in his past, and is safe from it.

But none of these things change the fact that Cas is actually angry at Dean's friends, his classmates, his fucking father; that he wants to be the _last_ guy Dean fucks, not just the first; that sometimes he wants to tell Dean everything, Isaac, the accident, the horrible emptiness after, his shitty family, all of it.

“You're mine,” Cas says again, the lie a silver edge that cuts into him.

Dean cries out as he comes on Cas's cock, his full lips parting around the sound in a plush 'o'.

_Flash._

Cas follows not long after, emptying himself inside of Dean with a sigh.

He gently unties Dean's wrists from the deep red silk of the tie and helps him pull his arms down and stretch them.

Dean's eyes are half-closed, his face lineless and slack after orgasm.

Cas strokes Dean's damp hair back from his forehead.

“First time in a while there's been a lightning storm in April,” Dean whispers.

Cas tightens his hold on Dean, thinking with a sinking feeling that it will soon be May.

He wishes he could stop time where it is at this very moment, as they lie together in Dean's bed and outside the sky is fraught with liquid fire.

Dean smiles softly at him, his eyes already closing.

 _Flash_.

*

The next time John is home for a few days he looks wan, his usually bright eyes drawn and his mouth set in a grim line as he makes his way down the stairs every morning.

Sam asks him more than once if he wants to go play catch, and to the boy's obvious surprise John turns down each request in favor of watching TV in the living room or sitting at the kitchen table to read the newspaper. Though Sam tries not to show it, Dean can tell that he's hurt, and he reassures his brother that their father is simply tired; he certainly looks it.

Mary picks up on John's exhaustion as well, and insists that he retire to bed before the rest of them almost every night, and while John can usually be counted upon to indignantly refuse her heckling, this time he doesn't bother. Instead, he simply trudges dutifully up the stairs an hour or two before anyone else does every evening.

This happens to John periodically, usually once a year or so, when all at once the time he spends on the road and in hotel rooms and conference centers seems to take its toll. Every time, Dean becomes a little more concerned.

He hopes John can retire soon; his father has always been the type of man well on his way to working himself into an early grave, and Dean senses that he isn't the only one in their family who harbors the latent fear that even retirement won't slow the process.

 

When John asks Dean to accompany him to the hardware store Friday after school, he wordlessly acquiesces; Cas has kept himself scarce at his aunt's house since John is around, and all of Dean's homework and chores are done. The unexpected request for Dean's company feels haphazard since all John will be getting at Lowes are things he could easily carry himself (the showerhead in John and Mary's bathroom has needed a few repairs for months, and John's finally got the time to complete the task this week), but it's not as if Dean has any reason to tell his father no.

Still, he feels the familiar anxiety set in after he slips his tennis shoes on and hops into the truck alongside the elder Winchester.

He sinks into the outdated beige upholstery of the passenger seat, smelling mildew from the rainstorm they had a couple of weeks back. Led Zeppelin wafts from the speakers when John turns the key in the ignition, and the old sky-blue beast roars to life beneath them. The windows of the pickup leak, and it drips oil like a sieve, but it's gotten John from point A to point B for as long as Dean can remember. He has a number of recollections from his childhood that take place in this truck: getting sacks of groceries for spaghetti night, carefully driving to the drug store after dark to help John pick out something for Mary's birthday, holding toddler Sammy in his lap with the seatbelt strapped over both of them as John sped the truck down the hill out behind the abandoned middle school a few blocks away.

But this is the first time Dean's been in this vehicle since at least sophomore year, and the realization makes him quiet and thoughtful as John pats the dash fondly. He's said more than once that he misses this truck when he's away from home in his 2014 Mitsubishi Lancer, small and silver like a bullet that shoots him from place to place. That car doesn't have his love, not like this truck and the Impala always have.

When they arrive at the Lowe's less than ten minutes later it's mostly empty, populated by only a few people leisurely wandering the wide aisles.

John has a list of supplies written on a Denny's receipt that he consults periodically. Dean sees his father squint at his own handwriting, sees at the corners of his eyes the crinkles he knows he himself will one day sport. Once, twice, it takes John a minute to glean what he needs, but Dean doesn't offer to help him, to speed up the process and see for himself whatever it is John's having a hard time making out. He knows his father wouldn't appreciate the offer, regardless of the good intention behind it. John is prideful, always has been.

It's one trait of many they've never had in common.

There's no line to speak of when they make their way to the front of the store, and soon enough they're climbing back into the truck, blue and white Lowe's bags in their hands.

They've said maybe one or two sentences to one another the whole trip, and Dean finds that he doesn't mind the way he used to; soon he'll be somewhere else, anyway.

He assumes that the things they don't say to one another will stop haunting him once he's safely out of Houston. Or at least, he hopes that they will.

The familiar music is quickly switched on again once they've gotten back on the road, and there's comfortable, worn silence until—  
"Have you thought about what you're gonna do after school?"

John's voice cuts through the neon thread of a power riff and startles Dean away from where he's been looking out the window.  
"Sure," he says immediately, hoping to buy himself some time.

"And...?" John says expectantly.

"And, I…" Dean isn't sure whether to tell his father the truth or not. He knows logically that John will find out soon enough either way, and for a moment he seriously considers throwing caution to the wind and coming clean with his plans.

_What could the truth hurt?_

But as soon as Dean poses the question to himself, doubt begins to creep in slowly beneath the cage of his ribs, cold and sharp. He's wondering now, as he has many times before, if he really has a chance of getting into any of the colleges he's been dreaming of since freshman year. His grades are better than average and he has a sizable list of extracurriculars, but he's never been able to feel any sort of confidence where his college aspirations are concerned.  
"I'm not really sure yet,” Dean decides on at last. “I, uh...sent in some college applications, but haven't heard anything back."

John is the first person he's told besides Jo, and he doesn't want to think of why that is.  
His father smiles ruefully at him, and all at once Dean's hard-won rationale and literary knowledge feels as if it's been boiled out of him by that single look.

"Yeah, I know." He says it as quickly as he can, before his father can respond, before he can laugh or deliver an awkwardly worded cop-out of a response about how _everyone's good at certain things, son_.

Dean's lost track of the times John's ruffled his hair and reminded him that Sam's the book-smart one, of the times he's laughed along at well-meaning jokes made at his own expense. His father has never bothered to look past the facade Dean is well-aware he's perfected, and he still doesn't know if he wishes more that he was worse at lying or John was better at telling the difference.

"They made us fill 'em out at school, what can you do?" Dean says.

"Well, I wanted to talk to you about coming to work with me," John says with one of the first genuine smiles Dean's seen from him in months, as tired as this particular one is.

“Yeah?” Dean says it easily enough, but his thoughts are racing as he realizes what John is proposing: a spot in the company, as many mind-numbing hours traveling to and fro across the country as he can take on, perhaps even something passing for an actual relationship with his father.

“You're not really the schooling type, I think we both know that. I know you'd make a fine partner,” John's saying with an expansive hand-motion that encompasses the length of the dashboard, the gray and green of the road ahead and the grass growing around its edges.

Dean wants tell his father that he _knows_ he can go to college, _knows_ he can leave Houston and start over someplace else, _knows_ he can walk away from Cas and be okay if he can at least pretend that school means a new start, a new life, a new person living in the same stretched, worn skin.

But at this very moment he doesn't feel like he actually knows any of these things for certain.

What if his father's right?

Dean sent in those applications over a month ago with no guarantee he'd get any of his top picks, or even any of his last-resorts. Now, the hours he spent writing admissions essays and emailing people and saving up for the fees feel like figments of some strange dream.

_Maybe it's better this way._

_Maybe I can come back here and see Cas when I'm not on the road. Might be easier than trying to convince him to visit me in another city._

_Maybe it's better this way._

“Sure, Dad,” Dean forces a smile. “Let's talk about it.”

*

“ _The other night, dear,_

_while I lay sleeping,_

_I dreamt I held you in my arms._

_When I awoke, dear,_

_I was mistaken,_

_so I hung my head and I cried...”_

 

Cas wakes up feeling as if he's about to pass out, and this time he knows he wakes Dean up, too. But Dean just holds him, soothes his trembling frame and presses kisses to his open mouth.

Cas scrabbles to lace his fingers through Dean's, shudders wracking him as he holds on tightly to the only port in the storm he's ever had.

*

When Dean checks the mail a week after the talk with his father he discovers a letter from the University of North Texas in the pile of bills and credit card applications. The public college is one that's high on his list.

He tears open the envelop, almost ripping the papers it contains.

He's been accepted.

Instead of feeling happy, Dean feels like he's about to throw up.

*

Cas isn't expecting it when his Aunt Nina asks to meet the tall boy who sometimes picks Cas up from the house in the evenings. Considering she never asks him for anything, however, he obliges her and tells Dean one evening in late April to come over and say hello to his guardian before they make their way back to the Winchester's for bad movie night with Sam and Jo.

When Dean arrives he immediately reaches a polite hand out to shake Nina's, and smiles winningly at her as he compliments the tacky orange and red housedress she's wearing. He's almost a foot taller than her, and the lightness of his golden hair and freckles contrasts noticeably with Nina's mousy brown locks and dingy, olive-toned skin. His aunt looks like a peasant before a god, and the thought makes Cas wonder what he himself looks beside Dean.

“Did you boys meet in class?” Cas's aunt asks Dean as he releases her hand and takes a mindful step back.

“Yeah. Precal, to be exact. The teacher wasn't too helpful and we had to find a study group to pass it,” Dean lies breezily.

“I remember having a hard time with math, too, when I was your age,” Cas's aunt says sympathetically, going so far as to extend a hand to pat Dean on the shoulder.

Dean appears to be carefully listening to her every word, his green eyes wide and his head inclined toward her ever so slightly. Cas can't help but marvel at the smooth transition Dean's just made from brooding, taciturn future English student to boisterous, parent-friendly charmer. His aunt is obviously smitten and they haven't been talking for longer than a few minutes.

But Dean is more than adept at putting on a front when he needs to, Cas reminds himself.

The unexpected bitterness that follows the thought carves a pit in Cas's stomach.

Less than a yard to the right of him, his aunt and Dean are still talking to one another as if Cas isn't there at all, the tone of their conversation now transformed from the tentative civility of the newly-acquainted to that of a tenuous kind of mutual fondness.

“...yes, ma'am. I've been to that one before, but it's been a while. How long have you been working there?...three years? Wow...”

Dean's green eyes are somehow bright even in the dingy yellow light of the small living room, and Cas's aunt is leaning heavily against the back of the couch, her chin in her hand as she listens to whatever it is Dean is saying to her now; Cas has started to suspect that she suffers from chronic pain in her knees, and is about to offer to help her into her chair when Dean beats him to it. It only takes a minute or two for the other boy to guide Nina to the faded, paisley armchair she favors. She exhales a shaky sigh of relief once she's seated.

“Thank you,” she says to him with a grateful exhale.

“Yes, ma'am,” Dean says again, the two words unheard and habitual. “My mom's feet hurt so bad when she comes home sometimes I have to help her up the stairs.”

Cas listens to them talk until he becomes lost in it, the words and phrases issuing from their lips meaningless and liquid as they flow in one ear and out the other. His name is said once in a while, as are Mary's and Sam's, and Dean mentions school and homework assignments and Cas's aunt smiles and asks him more questions like she actually wants to hear the answers.

Dean is beautiful, half-bent at the waist to ensure that Nina hears every word, and it makes something hurt inside Cas to see him and his aunt converse like they expect to do so again in the future, like they're actually taking care to remember things about one another to draw from at a future time.

Dean is beautiful, and this will all be over soon.

Cas doesn't realize that they're both looking at him expectantly and waiting for him to speak until he feels Dean's hand on his arm.

“Cas? You need anything before we head out?” Dean asks him.

He nods quickly. “Yeah, lemme just go to the bathroom. I need to get something from my room, too.”

“I'll get it. What is it?” Dean asks.

“My wallet,” Cas says with a grimace, grateful that he remembered it in time but annoyed with himself all the same.

“Alright. Meet you outside?” Dean asks.

Cas nods and goes down the hall to the restroom, hearing Dean's soft footfalls as they trail a few steps behind him to go to his bedroom.

When Cas emerges from the bathroom a few minutes later, he's surprised to see that his bedroom door is still open. Not sure if Dean forgot to close it or he's having a hard time finding the wallet, Cas makes his way over.

Dean doesn't react at first; he's sitting on the edge of Cas's bed with something in his hands.

Cas recognizes what the other boy is holding immediately.

“Where did you find that?” he asks Dean sharply, taking a few quick steps forward, one of his hands already out to take it back.

Dean looks up as the color literally drains from his face. “On your dresser.”

“You're lying. Give it back.” Cas feels as if his throat is closing. He can't remember if he actually did leave the photograph out on his dresser or not, and a peripheral part of him feels an absurd guilt for accusing Dean of digging through his things.

He knows what picture Dean is looking at, can see it in his mind's eye. It's almost three years old, and in it Cas is sitting with Isaac and has his arm around him. Isaac's wearing a yellow and blue striped t-shirt with a small hole near the collar and he has a necklace that Cas gave him around his neck, a nautilus shell on a leather cord. They're at Santa Cruz sitting on the cool, white sand of the crowded beach, and it's sunny. In the picture he and Isaac are smiling cheesily for Isaac's brother Angel, who took the picture with a camera that broke not long after.

Cas saved for weeks to have some spending money for the trip, and bought the necklace at one of the little shops on the boardwalk that very day after seeing Isaac stare at it for a moment too long to be casual. Isaac never asked Cas for anything if he could help it, but Cas could read him like a book after only a few months of knowing him. Isaac had slipped the necklace over his head after the cashier handed Cas the receipt, then leaned forward and whispered shyly, “Thank you, baby.” Isaac's brown eyes had been caramel in the sunlight, soft and luminous and grateful, as if Cas's presence was a gift.

The only other person who's ever looked at Cas that way is in front of him now.

Dean has no way of knowing any of this, and the many, many words Cas would have to string together to tell him makes him want to weep.

Dean stands up and holds out the stiff square of white, and Cas grabs it from him so violently that Dean flinches.

“Who is that? With you, in the picture?” Dean asks quietly, his lips still parted around the question after it's been voiced.

From the way his voice drags low, Cas can tell he's likely already guessed.

“His name was Isaac.”

Dean is beautiful, and his eyes are cloudy, now.

“Is he still in California?”

Cas has to look away as a lump forms in his throat.

“Yes, he is.”

*

Dean thinks about the boy in the picture with Cas. They had looked happy.

Cas had been smiling the way he has only once or twice before while in Dean's presence.

Dean feels stupid, the kind of stupid that no amount of acceptance letters in his desk drawer can mitigate.

When Cas is fucking him only a few hours later that night, Dean has to look away, staring at the wall and ignoring how empty he feels even as Cas fills him, even as he shudders and comes, clutching at Cas's shoulders.

But if Cas notices any of this, he says nothing, and that somehow hurts even more than what Dean's just learned about the other boy's life in California.

*

Cas finds the stack of envelopes in Dean's desk drawer the first week of May.

It's mid-afternoon on a sweltering Saturday, and he's been at the Winchester's since waking up early that morning and creeping quietly out of Dean's bed and then the back door, only to have Mary let him in before she left for work less than ten minutes later.

Cas tells himself that she doesn't know he sleeps over, but there are times when he wonders if that isn't true when she looks at him as if he's a child, her smile placating and almost conspiratorial as she opens the door and bids him good morning.

That was four or five hours ago, and now it's almost two o'clock.

Today, John is again on the road and will be for the next three or four days, Mary's at the hospital until midnight, and Sam is at Kevin Tran's house. The two of them will have the place to themselves until ten or eleven that evening, and while that's not unusual, something about the emptiness of the two-story house feels yawning and endless today, the summer heat swollen and amplified in the quiet. The time has passed slowly, tensely, unsettling even while everything else about the day bespeaks quiet ease, from the sunlight rolling in through the cracked window to the faint sound of the leaves rustling in the trees beyond, bright green and beautiful as they twirl in the mild midday breeze.

Once, twice, Cas has almost reached out to touch Dean as they sit on opposite ends of the bedroom, to close the distance and lay a hand on his shoulder or a kiss on his cheek, but both times he finds himself unable to do so, as if the other boy is surrounded by a barrier that Cas cannot breach.

Dean's currently in the bathroom and has been for a few minutes, and his absence is almost a relief after the day they've spent together.

Cas is sitting on the edge of the familiar twin bed with a lap desk propped on his knees and a test review spread over its gray plastic surface. Finals will be administered the following week, graduation the one after that, and he and Dean have spent the past few days studying. The activity is a convenient cover for the awkwardness that's suffused their interactions lately, but it doesn't quiet the thoughts Cas can't seem to let go of, doesn't answer the questions he's afraid to ask.

He's filling out the answer for the first question of his review when he notices that the mechanical pencil he's using will soon need the lead replenished. Figuring he might as well do so sooner rather than later, Cas sets the lap desk to the side and crosses the room to rummage through the desk where he knows Dean usually keeps one or two of the plastic containers of lead. After opening the top drawer and finding none, he moves to one below it, hoping he'll find some there.

Cas freezes when he registers exactly what the contents of the second drawer are.

A pile of envelopes sits stacked to the left, crisp and carefully re-sealed, varying shades of white and beige and cream and slate gray like paint swatches.

Cas feels his heart drop into his stomach.

He knows what they are before he even reaches for the first one to read the address in its upper left-hand corner.

_St. Mary's University,_

_One Camino Santa Maria_

_San Antonio TX, 78228._

 

_Southwestern University,_

_1001 E. University Ave,_

_Georgetown TX, 78628._

 

_University of the Incarnate Word,_

_4301 Broadway,_

_San Antonio TX, 78209._

 

_University of North Texas,_

_1155 Union Circle,_

_Denton TX, 76203._

 

All of them contain variations of the same neutral, politically and grammatically correct message:

_“Dean Winchester, we are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to attend classes at our campus for the 2016 Fall Semester...”_

For one bright, wild second Cas considers talking to Dean about it, asking which school he's leaning toward and looking for jobs there. Or maybe he can even go to school, too. Cas could, if nothing else, get into community college, couldn't he?

But as soon as Cas begins to give the idea any sort of serious thought, he's reminded abruptly of the teachers he sees at school, day-in and day-out, and the vacant, indifferent way they regard him when he enters their classrooms.

They don't need to say a word: he's a waste of perfectly good school resources, already lost to the gray-black of the cracked tar under the passing vehicles outside; he's a junkie's kid with a whore-sister who gave herself an abortion with LSD and vitamin C; he's a shitty STAR test result; he's not going anywhere.

Cas has known this was inevitable. He's known it since Dean confided in him that he wanted to be an English professor weeks ago; he's just been shoving it farther and farther into the back of his mind because thinking about not talking to Dean again makes it hard to breathe and _fuck_ this, this was so stupid.

When Dean opens the door to his bedroom he looks confused, and Cas doesn't blame him; he's standing in front of Dean's desk, the envelopes and their contents spread out over Dean's test reviews and color-coded class folders.

“Cas?”

Cas can't bring himself to hold Dean's gaze for long; his heart is pounding so heavily in his chest he can feel his whole body shaking with it.

“You're leaving.” Cas is relieved to hear how steady his voice sounds.

Dean doesn't deny it, doesn't say anything at all.

Cas continues, “I knew you were gonna go to school. I guess I...just didn't want to think about it.”

Dean rubs a hand over his face with a sigh, looking irritated. Cas doesn't understand why he isn't saying anything, why he looks as if he just wants to turn around and walk right back out of the room. It's not like Dean to act this way, and Cas feels angry and afraid and isn't sure which one he wants to settle on.

“You're leaving.” Cas says it again, wondering if Dean is even hearing him.

“What do you want me to say?” Dean asks dully.

Cas chooses anger.

*

Cas tosses the envelope he was holding to the side where it flutters to the floor, its contents gracefully spiraling down after it. His face is pale and his arms are out awkwardly by his sides like he doesn't know what to do with them.

“Fuck you!” he says to Dean, his voice low and dangerous.

Dean feels almost instantaneous resentment at the words, hot and bitter in the bottoms of his lungs. It's not an unfamiliar feeling, considering what he's been seething silently over the past week.

What right does Cas have to an explanation of Dean's choices when his heart has always been elsewhere?

“Fuck _me_? That's rich. Like you're not gonna book it back to California after graduation, anyway,” Dean says.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Cas yells, his face flushing a dark red. His voice is deafening in the small room.

“Like you don't fucking know. I'm not stupid, man. You're in love with your ex.”

When Cas's closed fist makes contact with Dean's cheek, he's not expecting it, and he stumbles back a few steps, the world spinning around him for a moment as he rocks on his feet. Somewhere beyond the pounding that's erupted in the center his head, Dean hears a broken cry slice through the hot, sticky summer air of his room. He isn't sure if it's he or Cas who's made the sound.

When Dean's vision steadies and he can focus on him once more, Cas looks as dismayed as Dean feels. His blue eyes are dark with emotion and his compact chest is rising and falling rapidly. His hand is still curled into a fist, extended high by his shoulder. His other hand is open and trembling by his side.

Dean raises a hand to touch his own face, somewhat numb now in the immediate aftermath of the strike. He gingerly runs a fingertip over the smarting lump already sprouting on his cheekbone.

“You hit me,” Dean says as he pulls his hand away and looks at Cas again.

He feels his eyes fill with tears, not from physical pain but from a strange, surreal shock that permeates him as he stands there.

He's known since they first met that Cas is adept at hurting other people. He just never thought that the violence he knew Cas to be capable of would be aimed at _him_. Dean has to look away for a second until the water in his eyes recedes.

When he meets Cas's eyes again he realizes that Cas regrets his actions, he can see it in the way his lips are parted, in the way fear and regret have become part of the architecture of his features.

Dean knows he could deescalate the situation as it is right now; he could back away from Cas and calm him. He could ask if Cas wants to help him make lunch or clean out one of the closets, he could tell him he's going to go sit outside for a few minutes and give him the room. He has before, when things became tense between them and the air itself felt too close, too heavy and too hot.

But those times were always after a coarse word or two, a misunderstanding easily remedied by small gestures, light touches.

Now, Dean is bruised and possibly bleeding and Cas is the reason why. All at once, Dean is furious. The anger he hasn't let himself feel fully is coursing through his veins.

The last thing he wants to do is deescalate _anything._

Why should he?

All he's been to Cas is a distraction, a laundry service, an easy lay.

Dean's face burns below the smarting lump on his cheek even _thinking_ of how desperate he's been for Cas over the past few months, of how tightly Cas has had to cover his mouth to muffle his cries as he fucks him anywhere they can manage to do it without getting caught.

It's felt real, and knowing the way he does now that none of it ever was hurts on such an indescribably deep level that Dean doesn't even know how to access the feeling, blunt and enormous and muffled somewhere beneath his skin.

So he flings an arm out and catches Cas in the sharp corner of his jaw.

A sick, coppery pleasure pools in the pit of his stomach as he feels the sting of it on his knuckles.

Cas raises his hands to his face in surprise, but he doesn't step back.

“All I've ever been to you was a game you already won,” Dean says.

He opens his arms to catch Cas as the other boy catapults toward him in a streak of white and red and black. His face is contorted with the rage Dean knows his own must also sport. The speed with which the Californian moves is startling in a moment where everything else seems suspended and slowed, echoed and repeated in the silence surrounding them.

Cas holds nothing back when they collide, and neither does Dean.

There is usually a lightheartedness in their gestures toward one another nowadays, a softness that crept in, quietly and slowly over the months spent together behind closed doors.

Now, there is none.

Cas is a jungle cat, corded muscles and claws and teeth and unbreakable, cold white bones. He lashes out with toes and fists and knees, kicking Dean's shins and pulling roughly at his short hair. Dean throws him off again and again, twisting limbs or bending them back to deflect the many blows Cas pelts him with little avail.

“You don't know what you're talking about,” Cas almost sounds as if he's pleading this time.

Dean doesn't respond; he doesn't know if he can now.

*

Cas has never seen Dean angry.

Annoyed, yes. Frustrated, more than once. But angry?

No.

Dean's face is a mask, golden and planar like those tacky things one sees hung on the walls in New Age home decoration magazines. His green eyes are hard, his full mouth is still and closed.

He doesn't return Cas's blows now, only staves them off. Cas wants him to strike back, needs to feel skin split and blood flow, regardless of whose it is.

But Dean doesn't oblige him.

Cas hears himself let out a noise that sounds like a sob, and he pushes Dean with enough force that he lurches back onto the bed behind them. Dean is solid and warm as Cas climbs on top of him in a single, vaulting motion.

Dean feels as if he's thrumming with the same savage energy that's flowing through Cas, his body heaving and his belly undulating as Cas begins to pound his fists on the strong, broad expanse of Dean's chest. Dean's ribs are like steel, the flesh and fat insulating them deceptively soft under the heels of Cas's hands.

Dean hisses and takes hold of Cas's wrists and, with a concentrated effort, turns the both of them so that Cas is beneath him, and in a second more they're rolling down to the carpeted floor, the power of Dean's motion propelling them.

Cas lands hard on his back, gasping soundlessly as the air is knocked from his lungs. He manages to free one of his hands and grabs at the collar of Dean's shirt. The popcorn ceiling above Dean's face is tacky and wide, and Cas has to look away.

The second time he hits Dean in the face, he gets him in the nose.

After that, Dean pins both of his hands down again.

For a moment in time like a hole ripped through denim, Cas regrets hitting him first, regrets all of this.

But he can't turn back now.

Cas grunts and twists to the side, extricating himself from under Dean's grip. He crawls away on his belly, the carpet burning and hot on his skin. Dean immediately follows, throwing all of his body weight on top of Cas and effectively stopping him from moving any further away.

“You don't know what you're talking about,” Cas says again, this time into the carpet.

At the words Dean seems to still against him, pressed tightly onto his back as they've been before in decidedly different circumstances. His breath is warm on Cas's neck.

Cas can feel Dean softening, can feel the coldness of calm stealing into the pressure of his touch, shamefully welcome on Cas's hot skin.

And even though seconds before he would have done anything to feel this very thing, Cas finds he can't bear it now.

He reaches back blindly, making contact with Dean's side, exposed where his t-shirt has ridden up in the scuffle, and roughly rakes his nails down the skin there. Cas feels the dampness of plasma and maybe even blood under his nails, and hears Dean curse angrily.

Dean rips him up from the floor, then, forcing him onto his back so that they are again facing each other.

“Why me?” Dean asks unexpectedly, his face almost unbearably soft for a moment and his green eyes so lost they hurt to look at. His hands feel like they're bruising Cas's shoulders.

“You're pretty,” Cas says, feeling a barbed, painful triumph when Dean's face falls.

It's not a lie, though it isn't the whole truth.

“Fuck you,” Dean spits, his voice raw.

“Do it,” Cas says without hesitation.

*

When Dean begins pulling at Cas's t-shirt, he isn't stopped. Cas goes so far as to lift his arms, making it easy for Dean to tug the shirt over his head before tossing it to the side.

Dean gives as good as he's ever gotten.

He leaves the backs of Cas's shoulders littered with mouth-shaped bruises, he rips one of his leather fingerless gloves down a seam, destroying it, he pulls at Cas's soft, dark hair until the other boy cries out in pain, he bites at Cas's neck until he tastes blood.

Cas doesn't writhe beneath him now, doesn't throw up obstacles or try to crawl out from underneath him. No, now he's reaching down to unzip the fly of his own jeans, shoving them down his muscular thighs violently enough that Dean hears a rip and knows the pants have taken one for the team.

Dean helps the other boy pull the jeans all the way off, the faded, hole-ridden boxers beneath following quickly.

Dean's blood is pounding in his ears as he looks down at the sight of Cas beneath him, of the smooth, tanned skin stretched taut over the muscular globes of his ass, the pronounced groove of his spine and the symmetrical dimple on either side which mark the location of his hipbones.

When he reaches out and presses a hand to the center of Cas's back, Cas jumps as if struck, the soft touch generating more of a response from him than any of the bites, or tugs did.

His arms are splayed out at his sides, his legs spread beneath Dean's where he's sitting atop the other boy. He's obviously waiting for Dean, obedient and still in a way he's never been in Dean's memory.

Cas wants him to do this.

Cas asked him to do this.

Dean isn't feeling lust, isn't feeling desire or longing so much as an alien fury and an incomprehensible, blurred pain somewhere in the center of his chest.

He reaches over Cas's head to grab the Astroglide from his bedside table drawer.

When Cas reaches a hand back and scratches a cruel row of lines up Dean's left arm, he gets the message.

*

Cas wonders if he hurt Dean their first time together as the other boy plunges two wet fingers into him at once.

He doesn't even remember now, and the fact makes him ache.

Why didn't he care enough to notice every moment, to memorize the sound of every exhale and the taste of every bead of sweat? Why didn't he see everything for what it was, then?

But he knows the answer, and it makes him seethe with shame: he hadn't given a fuck about Dean, then. At the time Dean had only been a conquest, a pair of lips and a dare posed to himself.

Now this will be all that he has, Dean's usually soft fingers fucking him roughly, his hot breath on Cas's ear as he splits him open. Dean's other hand is clamped over Cas's hip as if to hold him in place, though Cas has made no move to leave, and he knows he won't.

When Dean's fingertips blindly hit that spot inside of him, Cas cries out without meaning to, fisting his hands in the carpet and inhaling the scent of dust as his hips jerk minutely.

It's more than he thought it would be, all of it: Dean's anger palpable in the air, the feel of his fingers, thick and bruising between Cas's legs, the smell of him, heady and so familiar it makes Cas hurt as he catches snatches of it every time he lifts his head.

At some point Dean begins to stroke his free hand lightly down Cas's back, having moved it from his hip, and Cas reaches back again to scrape his nails down Dean's wrist. He draws blood this time, he can feel it. When he feels Dean return the favor, his nails digging into Cas's side, he closes his eyes in relief.

This is wrong.

But he can't stop now.

When he hears the sound of Dean's zipper being tugged down he exhales into the carpet, ducks his head and presses his nose and mouth into the floor.

Dean fits himself inside of Cas in one, hard thrust, and Cas distantly hears himself let out a pained cry.

Dean pauses once he's fully seated, and Cas knows that pause will undo everything like unraveling twine if they give it the chance, and he grabs one of Dean's hands from where it's now braced beside him and bites the heel of his palm without remorse.

Dean jerks his hand back from between Cas's teeth and fulfills Cas's wordless request, pulling out partially only to thrust back in without finesse or gentleness.

Cas closes his eyes and cants his hips up, feels the roughness of the pads of Dean's thumbs where they move to spread him open even further. He can taste Dean's blood on his tongue, can feel him inside his body.

But violence is not a love language.

_You hit me._

Cas feels his breath catch in his throat, and he wills himself to stay still, to take it the way he knows he's made Dean take it in the past, the way he made Dean take it the first time.

His mouth is wide and soundless against the carpet as Dean fucks into him again, his hands tight on Cas's shoulders.

Dean hurts. He hurts inside him and it's so perfect Cas could scream, which he might be doing, he's not sure.

Cas hasn't gotten fucked in years, but he doesn't want Dean to stop; he wants him to fuck him harder, wants to do himself permanent fucking damage. His body is spread open around the blunt weight of Dean's cock where it drives into him with enough force that each thrust knocks his head against the wall.

He wants it to hurt worse than it already does, wonders if it can.

Cas scores his nails over one of Dean's thighs this time, hears him groan in pain and wishes it wasn't him that caused it, even as he's fucked harder, just the way he wanted.

Cas wonders again if he hurt Dean like this the first time.

He can't fucking remember, still.

_You hit me._

*

Cas lets out a bitten, strangled cry beneath him.

Dean's arms and upper thighs are covered in bleeding scratches, and it feels unreal as he numbly watches himself slide in and out of Cas's body, watches the other boy's perfect, scarred skin where it covers writhing sinew and juddering bones.

He's hot and tight around Dean's cock, and the muscles of his back are coiled, taut and rigid beneath the skin, the knobs of his spine protruding like a mountain range.

Unbidden, Dean thinks of the dark-haired guy he fucked at the party what feels like years ago, now. He's fairly certain he treated the anonymous boy there with more tenderness than he's treating Cas. He had briefly kissed the shell of his ear, had been somewhat careful with him, had made sure he was alright with the way Dean was thrusting up into him.

It's that particular thought that makes him stop; it bubbles like acid or strong coffee up from his gut, filling his throat with heat.

He knows Cas's last name, knows how he likes his coffee and the fact that he has a half-sister and a shitheel of a father. He knows that Cas likes to be held after sex if he's not the one to expressly initiate it, knows that sometimes he needs to be left alone because he simply can't handle interaction with other people, knows that he makes a killer batch of noodles with just a few spices and some lime juice.

Cas is breathing heavily beneath Dean, his body trembling so violently that it feels almost like he's seizing. His hands are balled into fists by his head, and his back is dewed with sweat.

“I'm sorry,” Cas says into the carpet, his voice so quiet Dean barely catches the words.

Dean doesn't know what to do with the apology, doesn't know if Cas is apologizing for being in love with Isaac or for hitting him, or perhaps even for all of this.

He places his hand gently on the back of Cas's head.

*

When Dean starts to ease out of him, Cas tries to hold him there, reaching back and scrabbling at Dean's thighs.

“Please—” he starts before his voice fails him.

In a second or two Dean is turning him onto his back with hands suddenly soft and careful again the way they usually are, and Cas can't look at him, won't look at him.

*

“I can't hurt you, I—I can't,” Dean isn't sure if Cas hears him.

Cas looks like a kicked dog, his eyes strangely blank.

Dean sees it coming before the other boy can follow through with it, and grabs Cas's wrists when they come up to scratch at him again.

“Stop,” he murmurs as he holds both hands above Cas's head.

Dean can't remember clearly how they got here, now. It feels awful and distant, a nightmare better left in the darkness. He still feels hurt, but not angry. Not anymore. It feels as if the rage he felt only seconds ago is burned out of him now.

This is the last time for them, he's almost certain of it. After this, Cas will leave and Dean will, too, Cas back to Isaac and Dean to UNT or Saint Mary's. Cas doesn't want to salvage whatever it is they have together, that much is clear, but Dean isn't going to let him destroy it this way. That, he knows he can't bear.

When Dean lines himself up and slips back inside of Cas, it's softly this time, slowly.

Cas's eyes widen helplessly, and his body clenches once Dean is in all the way to the hilt. He looks perplexed, as if he doesn't understand what's happening.

“Are you okay?” Dean asks.

Cas says nothing, he simply nods once, his eyes huge in his face.

When Dean leans down to press a gentle kiss to Cas's shaking chest, the other boy lets out a shuddering breath.

*

This time it doesn't hurt, and the absence of pain makes Cas afraid, makes him want to wrench his hands from Dean's and hurt him again, hurt him until he lets him go, this time permanently.

Cas closes his eyes, the reality of the situation setting in so suddenly it makes him dizzy and nauseous.

Dean is pressing his lips to Cas's forehead, is moaning softly now as he slides home over and over again. Cas's cock is trapped between their stomachs and he can't stop the gasps that fall from his lips with every movement of Dean into him.

He feels like he belongs there. He's warm on top of Cas and has his arms around him and when did that happen? He's let go of his wrists to hold Cas closely, almost like—

Cas is stretched and full and open, his legs helplessly parted around Dean's body, and Dean is whispering something in his ear as his hands stroke down Cas's bruised shoulders and back, encircling him.

_What is it? Oh fuck, I can't know—_

It's his name, and it frightens him.

Cas grits his teeth and turns his face to the side, hating himself for the marks he left on Dean and wondering why he had to ruin it, how he even managed to ruin something already broken in the first place.

He can't make a sound, can't tell Dean to stop treating him like he matters, can't give voice to the unbearable pressure filling his lungs.

Dean is looking directly at him now, his eyes a dark, deep forest green with untold layers of emotion, and Cas can't remember when or why he opened his eyes again.

He doesn't deserve this.

Then Dean is kissing his shoulder again, his mouth soft and wet, and it's a fucking lie and after they both come he will leave and Dean won't call back again and Cas will be alone with the knowledge that he loves Dean and that Dean is gone, but because he _wants_ to be, not because he has no other choice—

*

When Cas makes a hitched, gulping sound low in his throat, Dean looks down.

He freezes when he realizes that Cas is crying.

Cas doesn't fight him this time when Dean pulls out. He's already trying to turn away, to wrap his arms around himself and crawl backwards out from under Dean.

“Shit, what's wrong, Cas? Fuck, did I hurt you?”

Cas doesn't answer him. His pale shoulders are shaking, his eyes closed as tears continue to steadily flow from beneath the lids.

He looks smaller now, somehow, and totally despondent.

Dean has no idea what to do. He's never even considered the possibility that he would ever see Cas in the state he's currently in: he's naked and weeping, and he has unsteady hands up as if to shield himself from Dean.

“Cas, where does it hurt? What did I do—?” Dean can feel his heart racing as he reaches out for the other boy, intent on pulling him close again to hold him, not knowing what else to do and habitually responding the way he would if it were Sam crying in front of him.

“I'm not leaving. You are.”

Dean stills, the whispered words not sinking in at first.

Cas's dark hair is wild, his knees coming up to touch his chest before he wraps his arms around them, making himself compact.

“Isaac is dead.”

Cas's face is pink and blotchy, the words gasped out between tears that haven't stopped coming.

“He died almost two years ago. I can't go back to California. I can't.”

Cas then puts his head down into the space between his knees and sobs, almost silent and still save for the muffled, wet sound of his breathing.

“Oh, fuck,” Dean says numbly.

Now, when Dean crawls toward him Cas lets him wrap him in his arms, though he's shaking so emphatically it rocks them both.

Dean feels horror seep into him as he processes Cas's confession. The boy in the picture is dead; the boy that Cas loved in California is dead.

Dean presses his lips to the sweat-lank hair stuck to Cas's forehead, feeling his mouth tremble as he struggles to convey the desire to take Cas's pain away, or to even understand the full scope of it, and he finds he can do neither.

Words are inadequate here as they lie on the floor together, damp and naked.

“Cas, I didn't know—”

“I didn't tell you,” Cas says in a voice without inflection.

They're lying together in a patch of sunlight where they were fucking only minutes before, and soon, Cas is no longer crying. His features are somewhat blank, now, his blue eyes distant again.

“I'm so sorry,” Dean murmurs at last into the top of Cas's head, reaching down to take one of Cas's hands in his.

The other boy lets him, lacing their fingers together without comment.

“I'm sorry,” Dean says again, hoping that the two words convey all that he feels at this moment and knowing with a keen pain that they don't.

Cas says nothing, he only turns and presses his face into the hollow of Dean's neck.

 

Dean doesn't realize he's fallen asleep until he wakes up later, his arms empty and Cas gone from the house.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Swear to fucking god, these fuckers are actually talking next chapter =)  
> Please leave me a comment telling me how you feel, they give me life.


	19. Chapter 19

Sunday feels like an age, like months and years suspended in dust that roll sluggishly through the itchy summer heat; Cas spends almost the entirety of it at his aunt's house holed-up in his room, absently picking at skin raw and tender to the touch, irritating the rug burn on the small of his back and the fronts of his thighs.

His room looks like someone's ransacked it; all of Isaac's letters have been snatched from their cardboard box, and the bits of paper and brown school napkins covered with Isaac's looping hand are scattered here and there over the stained carpet; their edges are dog-eared and soft from being unfolded and read and hastily re-folded. The clothes Cas wore on Saturday have been flung wherever he had the wherewithal to toss them when he got home, and by the bed there's an empty glass tumbler still sticky with the dregs of Nina's Bacardi, downed before Cas fell into a fitful, crawling sleep the night previous.

Across the room from where Cas sits sprawled out on the floor beside his bed, Dean's jacket hangs casually from the doorknob. It's one of the few things in the room that hasn't been relegated to the floor.

Every time Cas sees the worn leather he seethes with shame.

The rum hasn't dampened it, and neither has anything else. All Cas is conscious of is a humiliation that makes him want to hit something until it bleeds.

He told Dean about Isaac.

He let Dean fuck him and then cried like a child beneath him, trembling and weak and split down the center like ripe fruit.

He let his emotions drag him down in a situation where he's already relinquished almost all control, and the self-inflicted breach feels like a violation.

Cas knows what Dean's probably thinking; it doesn't take a genius to imagine the awkward pity he's likely feeling for Cas. It doesn't matter how often Dean texts or calls (which he has, more than once even in the few hours since Cas left him asleep on the floor Saturday afternoon), Cas knows that any affection the other boy has for him after this will be borne of misplaced sympathy.

Cas doesn't know if he's angrier at Dean for poking at the wound until he made it bleed anew, or at himself for having blood left in him to spill.

*

The second-to-last week of school begins sleepily for Dean, starting with a Monday that feels far too eager on the heels of a Sunday night spent awake and motionless in his bed. Dean's been unable to do much besides replay the last of Cas's words in his mind over and over again until they recede into the meaninglessness of a language he doesn't speak.

_Isaac is dead._

_I'm not leaving, you are._

Dean doesn't know what to make of the implications in that single sentence. Does Cas think that Dean _wants_ to cut ties with him when he heads off to university (and really, what else _could_ he think after the debacle this weekend had been)? He wishes Cas would answer his texts or calls so he could ask, but he's been ignoring all of Dean's attempts to contact him. He hasn't seen Cas around school the way he'd been counting on as the awkwardly-enjambed testing schedule rolls slowly by, and his phone reliably yields nothing from him.

It hurts more than he's willing to admit that it always seems so easy for Cas to slip right back into the way they used to be.

The bottom feels like it's fallen out of everything, regardless of how Dean tries to pretend it hasn't; he's spilled lukewarm coffee all over himself and the Impala's front seat, yelled at Sam for not telling him he was inviting his loud, stupid friends over, broken his watch by swiping at its face so forcefully he cracked it, stormed out of a test-taking classroom because he was almost one-hundred percent sure he got one of the high-point questions incorrect, and burned his hand while making ramen for himself and Sam after school, and it's only Wednesday. He's anxious and sullen and can't bring himself to tell Jo what happened on between himself and Cas on Saturday, even though he wants badly to ask her for advice or perspective. He is helpless, unable to able to make things right with Cas or even _understand_ him. Every time he comes close to spilling all of it to Jo, Dean loses his nerve. He's afraid that she'll tell him what he's been unable to convince himself is a paranoid delusion: that he's ruined whatever it was he and Cas had.

But his friends know something's wrong without him saying a word, Dean can see it on their faces as they make their way to their shared finals or to the long breaks held in the gym; both Michael and Gordon needle him about inconsequential details, sensing how thrown Dean is but not the reason why. Michael invites Dean over both Monday and Tuesday night and Gordon tries to talk him into skipping out early and heading to the nearby arcade. Dean's only been able to inconspicuously decline the offers because of the finals they're all taking. Jo is different in her approach; she merely drops hints here and there that she'll be available to hang out, just the two of them, this day or that, and Dean loves her for it even as he turns her down. He's gone almost his entire life without needing a shoulder to cry on, he shouldn't need one now, he tells himself.

But Dean can't stop thinking about their last interaction.

He had known on Saturday that he was baiting Cas, had known he was courting his anger by feigning indifference, but he'd been upset and careless. He'd only wanted to see if Cas actually gave a fuck about him, had wanted to provoke some sort of reaction from him.

He hadn't counted on how successful he'd been.

Cas had felt broken. It's a word Dean's never used to describe Cas before, and one he never thought he would. But in that moment, it had fit. In that moment, Cas had been someone else entirely. Dean is so rarely given insight into Cas's life before Houston that the vague hint of it makes him want to know the rest, as horrified as he is by what he's already privy to.

He'd guessed early-on that Cas had a less-than sheltered upbringing, has suspected that the violence Cas referenced once or twice was probably a regular occurrence in that part of California, but to learn that he lost someone when he would have been only fifteen or sixteen...Dean would never have guessed if Cas hadn't lost his shit and told him.

Losing boyfriends or girlfriends shouldn't happen to people their age.

A loss that cuts that close to the bone should be reserved for adults, for long-married couples fighting cancer or creeping illnesses, deaths due to old age or borne peacefully in the thick of sleep.

People like Cas shouldn't have that much taken from them.

The Spanish tattoo on Cas's back makes sense now, and Dean feels something like guilt and jealousy twist together in his belly at the thought, as inappropriate as he knows they are, now.

Was Isaac a soulmate? Does Cas want to be with Dean at all? Would he be content to walk away without looking back?

God, but Dean just wants to talk to Cas.

He still isn't sure what he would say, but he would think of something to have the chance to make it right.

_I'm sorry I brought up your dead ex._

_I'm not sure you ever really cared about me but that doesn't change how I feel about you._

_I wasn't expecting you to punch a hole in my life and ruin me for anybody else._

_I hate the way you make me feel sometimes._

_I never understood anything about you until you cried in my arms._

_I love you, and I'm sorry._

The last thought hurts so badly that Dean closes his eyes as it lances its blunt, honest way through him.

*

Late Thursday night Nina asks Cas if he'll have dinner with her, and, like she did on Christmas morning, wordlessly enlists his help preparing their meal. It's nothing special, just sugary tomato soup from dented cans and grilled-cheese sandwiches made with white bread and cheese slices in sleeves of plastic.

Nina hums tunelessly as she works, asking Cas general questions about his exams between requests for him to pass the bread or hand him a plate, and Cas answers her just as generally.

The dining room table feels minuscule between them as they settle in across from each other, the ever-present hum of the television drifting in from the living room a strange, distant soundtrack in the relative silence.

When his aunt speaks a few minutes later, she surprises Cas with a decidedly non-general question. "Is Dean going to visit again?"

Cas freezes. Then, "No."

His aunt takes a sip of tap water from a lime-encrusted glass. "I like Dean. He's a good boy." Her tone seems to imply that Cas is unaware of this.

"Well, he's probably never coming over again, so I don't know what to tell you," Cas aims for nonchalant and fails when his voice cracks mid-sentence.

"I doubt that," Nina says, her words softer than they ought to be. Her brown eyes are tired as they always are after an all-day shift, and the housedress she's wearing tonight is lime green and an ugly peach color, Cas notices. He should buy her a new one when he starts working full-time. Hell, he should get her five or six to make up for the booze of hers he's stolen. The fact that she seems to know and doesn't care doesn't change that he needs to pay her back in some way.

Cas's sandwich is forgotten in one hand as he stares at his aunt. "You think so?"

He doesn't realize he's holding his breath until she answers and he breathes again.

"If you could scare him away, you would have already," she says matter-of-factly.

After they've eaten, Cas and Nina watch a few hours of crappy television together, and there is silence outside the small house and between the two of them, and neither one of them seems to mind.

When Cas slips into bed later that night, he opens his phone and scrolls through Dean's text messages.

_'Pls call me back'_

_'Can we talk?'_

_'Are u ok?'_

He stares at them until they blur together into pools of blue and white and grey and does not answer any of them, and it hurts. It hurts, and it hurts, and it hurts.

*

Dean isn't happy.

He's finished with half of his high school finals and has picked out a reputable college to attend and it's the second-to-last Thursday of his high school career, and he isn't happy.

He's leaning against Michael's stairwell drinking gin and juice, and everyone else is relieved, giddy, tipsy, assuring themselves that they won't drink enough to be hungover on Friday morning and already failing. Gordon is in the living room chugging beer with Al Rooke, another member of the football team. Jo and Michael are swapping kisses between drunken attempts to take a passable selfie together on her phone, and the sight of them together makes something in Dean ache.

Dean is physically present in the room, but for all that he's actually doing he may as well not be there at all. He's not interacting with his friends or contributing to their happy, silly conversations, and Al keeps challenging him to arm-wrestle and he's politely turned him down three times. The drink tastes sour and old on his tongue.

He'd figured that a few celebratory drinks and a night with his friends might snap him out of the foul mood he's been in, and so far it's only proven helpful in doing the exact opposite.

When Dean finally decides that it's better if he simply leaves, he bids everyone listening a fond goodbye, rinsing his cup in the sink with soap and warm water before leaving it upside down on the towel by the kitchen island. He figures it'll be at least one thing his friend won't have to clean in the morning.

But before he's able to make it to the door, Michael accosts him and tries to convince him to stick around.

"C'mon, man!" he slurs happily, his light eyes red-rimmed after the two shots he's just taken with Jo. "It's just gettin' good! Amelia and Lilith are on their way over _right now_!"

"Nah, I'm okay. I'm tired, man. I stay much longer I'll crash on your couch," Dean says with a shake of his head.

"Y'know you're welcome to," Michael says with a sincerity that seems to come out of nowhere. "You have before." He's looking at Dean closely, and the intensity of his gaze is such that he shrugs out from under Michael's eyes as quickly as he can, strangely shaken.

"I know," Dean says quietly. "I'll see you soon, Mikey."

He clasps his friend's shoulder and leaves soon after, making sure to lock the door behind him. He doesn't run into the girls on his way out and is grateful for it, not wanting to talk to anyone else except perhaps Sam when he gets back home. That sounds nice, he thinks as he climbs into the Impala and rests his hands on its cool steering wheel. There aren't many times he wants to talk to his brother so emphatically, but now is one of them. Sam is younger and there are things he doesn't understand, but right now Dean wants nothing more than to listen to his brother talk about Law and Order or the mystery paperbacks he reads almost obsessively.

The thought gets him through the short drive back to the house, where he lets himself in with his key. The first thing Dean notices upon entering the den is his little brother dozing on the sofa with Mary sitting Indian-style beside him, flipping idly though trash TV channels.

"Hey, honey," she greets as Dean comes inside, doing so without looking away from the screen.

Dean is surprised, "Hey, Ma. When'd you get home?"

Mary smiles at him, "About an hour ago. A summer miracle happened, and it turned out they over-scheduled a few people and didn't need me tonight after all."

Dean sits down on the arm of the sofa, leaning against his mother's shoulder. He knows he probably smells a little bit like alcohol, but he doesn't think he would care if she grounded him; it's not as if he has anywhere to go right now, anyway. But Mary says nothing, if she smells the gin on his breath at all.

"You have fun with the boys?" Mary asks, Jo naturally included in the question.

"Oh, yeah. Yeah," Dean says absently, looking down at where Sam's mouth hangs open as he sleeps. His long, floppy chestnut hair pillows his head on the couch, and he looks well and truly out.

So much for talking to his kid brother.

"You seem tired," Mary says as she reaches out an arm to wrap it around Dean's waist, pressing her cheek against his side the way she used to do when he was little and wanted to pretend to be a grown-up. He'd sat on the same sofa arm, then, too. At the time he'd been about Mary's height when balanced atop the leather arm; now he towers over her.

"I'm fine," Dean mumbles in her direction, knowing that it's obvious he's lying and not bothering to inject sincerity into his voice. He is tired, she's right.

"I have some cherry coke," Mary says, looking up at him from where she sits.

At the words, Dean sags into her and nods, the meaning of the phrase more than what it appears on the surface.

As far back as Dean can remember, he and his mother have had all of their 'serious' talks over the flavored brown soda. She doesn't do it with Sam, only with Dean. Sam, Dean's always assumed, has his own important-talk treat, but cherry coke is Dean's, and even though he lost his taste for the stuff long ago, drinking it with Mary is something he'll probably always be willing to do.

Within a few minutes they're sitting at the bar in the mostly-dark kitchen, room-temperature soda in coffee mugs between them on its long surface.

"What's going on?" Mary asks Dean plaintively.

Perhaps it's because he can't see his mother that clearly in the dim light making its way from the TV a few yards away, or maybe it's because he's exhausted and his hands are shaking as he lifts the mug to his lips to take a sip of coke, but after setting it back down he tells his mother what he should have the second he knew for sure years and years ago.

"Ma, I...I don't like girls."

"I know," Mary says almost immediately, taking a sip from her own cup in solidarity.

"Wait, what? You do?" Dean stutters.

"You're my baby, of course I know," Mary says the words as if she's actually talking to an infant. "I think I knew when you told me you wanted to marry Benny after your first day of kindergarten." At that, she laughs. "And you...well, every time you brought a girl home I could tell you were...not faking it, because I knew you cared about them in your own way, but I could tell that you weren't sincere," she says carefully, each word measured and soft as she breathes them into the air between herself and her son.

"Well, Dad knew, too," Dean says bitterly, clutching at the handle of his mug as he looks down at his own lap. He doesn't feel better having told her, he feels like a failure. He apparently can't even keep a secret successfully.

As if sensing his train of thought, Mary reaches out and grabs his free hand in hers, holding it tightly. "We're your parents, of course we knew. And your father..." she inhales somewhat shakily before continuing. "Your father has a lot to work on. I love him, but there are things about him that I wish to god he'd see a shrink about." She laughs a little, then, and so does Dean, both of them undoubtedly imagining John Winchester sitting awkwardly in a therapist's office, eyeing the other patrons suspiciously and leafing through a booklet on anger management techniques as if one wrong touch might make the thing explode in his hands.

Dean realizes that after he's begun to laugh he can't seem to stop, and it's a hitched, breathless thing that doesn't sound like him. He lets her when Mary pulls his head to her shoulder and wraps her arms around him where they teeter somewhat precariously on the tall bar stools.

Relief fills Dean as he closes his eyes and lets his mother hold him. He'd been afraid Mary would have the same reaction John did all those years ago, so afraid—

He doesn't notice he's saying the words aloud until Mary says quietly into his ear, "You never need to worry that I won't love you, Dean. I love you more than I love myself. Hell, I love you more than I love your fool father, and I love that man more than he deserves. You and Sam are the best things I've ever done."

When Dean pulls back, Mary is smiling at him.

"I think I messed things up with Cas," Dean says in one rushed breath as he looks at her.

"What happened?" Mary asks, lifting her mug to her lips again as she leans back to give Dean room to talk.

"He's not my boyfriend," Dean prefaces, ignoring the dubious look his mother shoots him as he continues. "But, he was over last week and we...we got in a fight. It was dumb. Well, it wasn't dumb, actually. I...he found out I was leaving for college and he blew up at me."

"Is that where the bruise on your cheek came from?" Mary interjects, blessedly not questioning him about the other part of his statement.

Dean nods before speaking again, "Sometimes, Cas, he...he gets angry, like, _really_ angry. And he did this time, and I was mad, too. I said something I shouldn't have, but I didn't know what was gonna happen when I did."

Dean sounds like he's pleading, and in a way, he is.

"I hurt him, bad," he says quietly. "He—Cas's ex died and I didn't know and I...I brought him up. I was mad and I wanted him to be as mad as I was, I guess. I don't know why I thought that was a good idea, but, yeah. I kinda brought up one of the worst things that's ever happened to him when he was already pissed."

Mary's eyes grow sad, "I had no idea that had happened to him. But Dean, honey, I don't like that he hit you."

“He's never done that before,” Dean says, knowing that he has no obligation to make excuses for Cas but feeling like his mother can't fully understand since her knowledge of the situation is so limited.

“Do you think he will again?” Mary asks seriously.

“No.” It's true, Dean doesn't think that Cas would, though whether that conviction comes from the fact that he believes Cas feels total apathy toward him now or because of his faith in Cas's character, he isn't sure.

“Have you talked to him since then?” Mary asks, her brow furrowed.

Dean shakes his head. "He's ignoring me, now."

"Have you already given up trying to talk to him?" Mary asks knowingly.

Dean looks away, feeling his cheeks flush. "I don't think he wants to, anymore."

Mary sighs, "I'll be honest, I don't like that he hit you. But if you really want to talk to him, you'll probably need to try a little harder. That boy's a closed book if there ever was one."

"I don't think he wants me to try," Dean says dejectedly. "He's never...I've never seen him that upset." He can't bring himself to admit to his mother that he made Cas Krushnic, a kid with a penchant for dirty pocket knives who can take two guys in a fight, sob quietly in his arms.

"He wants to," Mary says after another sip of her soda.

"You think so?" Dean asks.

His mother nods, “ He likes you. I was waiting for you to tell me you liked him, too. He'll talk if you talk first, I bet.”

Dean can't remember a time in which he's loved Mary more.

That is, until she narrows her eyes and asks, "When were you going to tell your mother that you're going off to college?"

*

Cas is crossing the crowded hallway near the back of the school on Friday, making his way to the bathroom before his walk home when he feels a hand fasten itself on his shoulder.

It's not a particularly tight or insistent grip, but it immediately puts him on edge anyway. Cas whips around quickly enough that his bag goes sailing into whoever it is that's standing behind him, which turns out to be Dean.

Cas sees quickly that the other boy's green eyes are tired and drawn, his handsome face pale and pinched. He looks as if he hasn't been sleeping well, and Cas wonders briefly if he looks the same; he doesn't make looking overlong in the mirror a habit, especially lately.

"What do you want?" he asks Dean after realizing that he's been staring silently at him for almost a minute. His voice sounds angry to his own ears, and he's unsure if he is or not. He's feeling a tangled mass of things settled squarely in the center of his chest, but he can't tell if anger is one of them.

"Cas," Dean says, his voice hoarse as if from disuse.

Cas hasn't pulled away from where Dean's pulled him close, and people are starting to look at them where they stand together in the middle of the hall, now. But Dean isn't looking at them, he has eyes only for Cas, and it makes Cas feel sick to think of people seeing Dean with _him._

Dean is almost clinging to him, the warmth of his body close and enough to make Cas wish they were alone so he could—

He shakes his head at the thought of kissing Dean softly, of touching him. It's over, he reminds himself.

He shrugs out from under Dean's grip.

"What?" he snaps.

"Can we talk? Please? Doesn't have to be right now, but can we?" Dean asks in a rush, perhaps knowing too well how close Cas is to turning and leaving him without so much as a second glance.

"There's nothing to talk about," Cas lies.

"Cas, please. I'm sorry for what I said, I didn't know. I didn't mean to—" he cuts himself off, his eyes searching for what, Cas won't think about. “I was gonna tell you about school. I was, Cas. You gotta believe me.”

Cas begins to turn away, his lower lip bitten to keep from saying something he'll regret.

“Don't,” Dean says, the rest of the inquiry unspoken and obvious.

_Don't leave me here._

Cas feels guilt burn through him at the words. It's not Dean who should be apologizing or begging. Why is he doing this? Why is he even listening to Dean? This isn't the way it should be. None of this is right, and the thought that Dean still wants to talk to him at all makes Cas want to laugh and cry at the same time. Dean doesn't deserve this, he never did. Cas was just too selfish to acknowledge it.

_You hit me._

Cas turns away at last, praying as his feet carry him down the hall and away from Dean that the other boy doesn't follow him.

*

When Dean tells Sam he's both gay _and_ going to the University of North Texas next fall, he feels his brother is much less surprised than he ought to be by the news.

"What do you mean, you _always knew_?" he asks Sam somewhat indignantly.

"You were in love with Benny for like, a million years," Sam says with a casual shrug of his shoulders.

"Fuck," Dean says with a self-conscious scratch to the back of his neck. "I thought I was...a little more subtle."

Sam's smirk informs him otherwise.

Then, "So, is Cas, like, your boyfriend?"

Dean may or may not shatter the moment by ordering his brother out of his room after that.

*

Cas spends most of Saturday sitting on the familiar plastic bench in the playhouse at the park near Dean's house. It's a warm, dry day, and a few times over the three or four hours that he wastes there Cas watches families come and go, looks at white children with blonde hair and light eyes in their pastel-colored clothes and matching shoes. It's hard to believe that the part of Houston where his aunt's house is located is so near this one. He can walk here in less than an hour when he sprints and takes every shortcut he knows, and he used to, often.

How strange it is to know that not far from where a blonde toddler is strapped into a car seat inside a Lexus, a bullet went through Nina's bathroom window. Cas catches a mother looking at him with discomfort once, twice, and knows he doesn't belong. But at Nina's, he's never once felt that way. Everything there is as fucked-up as he is: the poorly maintained streets, the faded 'beware of dog' signs that hang off of the crooked fences, the dead grass and trash littering the side yards. In California, a lot of Cas's hometown had been the same. There, he had felt a part of everything, as old as the cracked concrete foundations and long-broken garage windows.

He knows Dean didn't grow up the way he did. When Dean was very young things had been more difficult for the family, according to Mary. But they hadn't stayed poor long, and Dean's never gone longer than a day without food, has never tucked his junkie father in as beside him a pile of his own sick dries on the floor. Dean is kind, and Dean would listen if Cas told him everything about his life from California; he would sit quietly and politely as Cas explained that Anna fucked people for drugs and that his vision is messed up in one eye because Chuck hit him hard enough to knock him out.

But would Dean understand?

 _Can_ Dean understand?

Cas closes his eyes as he slowly breathes. In, out, in. A warm breeze rolls over his skin. Somewhere in the distance he hears the faded refrain of 'Crazy Train' as it blasts from someone's car speakers.

When he finally gathers the nerve to make his way over to the Winchester house it's almost eight o' clock, and the sky is a dusky gold. The sun's slipping lazily lower in the sky with every minute that flows like honey over Cas's head.

He's more afraid than he's ever been.

*

When he hears a knock at the front door Dean's slow to dislodge himself from the sunken couch cushions and answer it, expecting the UPS guy or one of Sam's nerdy friends. He isn't prepared to open the door and find Cas standing before him, his shoulders hunched and his eyes averted.

“I'm here to talk,” Cas mumbles to the floor before stepping quietly past Dean into the house.

Sam's home today, as is Mary, and she greets Cas the way she usually would, seemingly oblivious to the Californian's discomfort, though Dean knows better from the wary way she nods to him when Cas's back is turned. Cas's hands are jammed deep into his pockets, his blue eyes darting to and fro, glossing over everything but Dean as he makes his way through the entry way to the living room.

“Let's, uh, let's go upstairs?” Dean doesn't mean to phrase the words like a request, but they come out that way. He's relieved when Cas nods absently and leads the way to the staircase.

The short trek to the second floor feels as if it's done in the heaviness of sleep, Dean's feet dull and plodding as he listens to the soft sounds of Cas's footsteps before him, some part of him waiting for the other boy to turn, push past him and run.

But he doesn't, and soon they're in Dean's room, standing awkwardly before one another in its center.

Soon it will be dark out, and Dean's window is open the way it was the week before, the curtains fluttering softly in the warm evening breeze.

Dean waits for Cas to speak, not having any idea if it's the right thing to do so or if he should venture the first words that break the ice.

*

Cas scrutinizes the spotless carpet beneath him and notices that he has a new scuff on the already-distressed toe of his left boot; Dean's feet are clean and bare only a foot or so away from his.

He doesn't know what to say, and he looks up at Dean at last, the silence between them like an overflowing tub. Dean is looking at him like he's missed him, and Cas doesn't know how that could be.

Dean still has a fading bruise on his cheek from the week before, the sick yellow of it ugly on his freckled skin. Cas feels as if he can't look away from it, can't think past it; it seems to spread as he looks at it.

"I hit you," Cas says, the words like rocks in his airway.

Dean's eyes flicker toward the floor and back again, his lower lip caught between his teeth, but he doesn't hesitate when he answers. "Yeah."

"This is dumb," Cas is shaking and can't seem to make himself stop. He feels weak and afraid and isn't used to either. He should leave; he can't do this. There are some things that shouldn't be said and what if this is one of them? He should leave—

Dean grabs his hand before it can fall all the way back to his side, clasping it tightly enough that Cas wonders at how it doesn't hurt. He wonders if he should pull away, but he doesn't want to. He's afraid, and Dean is warm.

*

Cas's eyes slip closed as Dean threads their fingers together, a shudder noticeably making its way through his body.

“I'm glad you came,” Dean says softly. “You left so fast last week, I was—I wanted you to stay.”

“Why?” Cas asks sharply, his eyes wary as they rake Dean over like spent coals. He looks like he's expecting Dean to tell him something he won't like.

“I was worried,” Dean admits, knowing the other boy won't like it but saying it anyway. “I—I've never seen you like that. I wanted to see if you were okay. I was fucked up over it, too. I thought I'd—I never wanted that to happen.”

Every admission feels as if it takes part of him with it, and he feels naked for the first time in Cas's presence.

“I'm not okay,” Cas says absently. It's a statement of fact, not a spiteful comment.

"Can you talk to me?" Dean asks, stroking his thumb over Cas's pulse point.

*

Cas knows what Dean is asking, knows what he means.

He's not asking why Cas came over, or what caused him to lose his temper or even what brought him from California to the hole his aunt calls home.

He's asking about Isaac.

The thought of talking about him makes something in Cas's chest pull itself tight, and he gasps without meaning to, the sound deafening in the silence of the room.

Dean is still holding his hand, and he moves forward silently to wrap his free arm around Cas as if he isn't afraid that doing so will earn him another hit to the face, another harsh word or undeserved barb.

Cas rests his chin on the shelf of Dean's broad shoulder, inhales the scent of his skin where it's warm against his nose and mouth.

He came here with the intention to show Dean that he was strong, that he didn't need anyone's sympathy or comfort, but he can't seem to move from the frame of Dean's embrace, the solid warmth of him weakening his resolve the longer he waits to extricate himself.

The words he says next are quiet.

"We were together almost two years."

He feels nauseous, and he swallows once, twice.

Dean doesn't say anything, he just waits.

"I knew his brother first," Cas speaks into Dean's neck. "I, uh, sold him weed a few times. Anna used to deal small-time, and that was how we met. His brother's name was Angel, and one time I went over to see him, and...Isaac was there in the living room watching TV with him, doing homework. Their parents worked a lot, and Angel was always looking after him 'cause he was the oldest.” Cas pauses before continuing, thinking of the familiar living room, the outdated television set with its bent antenna and broken button panel.

“That was...that was it. I met him, and I guess we never looked back. That was 2012, I think. We were freshmen. Before him, I was always alone. Then I wasn't. He was sweet. I used to...steal candy for him." He smiles a little, remembering how Isaac used to scold him for doing so even as he tore the wrapper open to get at whatever Cas had pilfered. If he closes his eyes he can still see Isaac clearly, his soft smile and cracked front tooth, his coffee-brown eyes, his curly black hair. He can hear his voice if he focuses hard enough, speaking Spanish and then English, depending on who he was talking to. With his family Isaac had always spoken Spanish, and Cas had known enough to hang on to the edges of their conversations like soft yellow coattails.

"His family was...they were good. Nice. Worked a lot." Cas's voice breaks, and he pretends it doesn't and keeps on talking even though it feels as if his throat is closing up. He's both never spoken this much to Dean and has never talked about this before, not with anyone. He's thought of it over and over, has worn the old, familiar thoughts smooth like river stones in his mind, but saying it aloud feels like both coming alive and dying at the same time, as if these memories are what make him who he is and he's been living as a ghost since they were shut inside of him two years ago.

"They liked me. They knew what Isaac and I were, but they didn't care. He was their baby, the youngest. My dad was never around, and they let me stay with them a lot, made sure I had food and was okay. It was like having a family."

Dean guides Cas to the bed and sits him down on its edge, and Cas lets him without comment.

*

"He wasn't supposed to die."

The words chill Dean to the bone. Cas is staring ahead blankly, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. When his lips move, they move slowly, each word heavy.

"The guys who did it—they weren't trying to kill us. Hurt us, yeah. It was a warning, was supposed to be. I was...we were holding hands, walking down the street. It was the wrong street. We didn't know the turf'd changed." Cas' mouth twists bitterly for a second, "We'd gotten jumped before. Shouldn't have been a big deal."

He clears his throat shakily, and Dean feels a helpless, puke-green rage that anyone could hurt someone like Cas, like _Isaac_. He's been unable to think of Isaac as anyone other than someone's little brother, someone who had been loved and cared for and looked after. The thought of someone hurting Sam in the same way makes him want to throw up.

Cas is speaking again. "They had to throw their weight around. You know how it is."

Dean doesn't, but he says nothing, determined to let Cas talk without interruption.

*

Cas closes his eyes.

He remembers the details of that day very clearly, undimmed by the passage of time and attempts to drink himself dead. He can easily recall the weather, the smell of car oil and ozone that had been on the air, what Isaac had been wearing. It's all still there, bleeding into his dreams and taking up space in the back of his mind. Bringing it the forefront again seems monumental, awful. Cas's heart is beating fast, so fast.

Isaac had been a scrapper, had always been good at protecting himself, much the way Cas was. Together, they usually made an effective team, but that day they hadn't.

“He got hit, but that wasn't what did it,” Cas's voice sounds hoarse even to his own ears, worn thin and raw. “He went down and hit his head on the curb, and I knew that—”

Here, he has to stop for a moment. Dean is looking at him intently, and Cas wants to cry the way he did a week before, but he doesn't let himself. He only lets himself stare back at Dean, and he doesn't cry, and he doesn't crack. But he pauses until the words will come from his swollen throat again, and all the while Dean lets Cas use his gaze as an anchor.

The boy who had knocked Isaac back onto the curb had been nondescript, plain save for a phoenix tattoo on his neck, the work one of surprisingly good quality. He'd hit Cas over the side of the head with a bottle, the sound of the blow as loud as a gunshot in his ear. Cas had stared at the kid's tattoo instead of his face for the brief time that he'd considered rushing him, before he'd realized that Isaac had landed strangely and was jerking listlessly on the dirty concrete. Their attackers had left quickly after that, guessing all too quickly what Cas had _known_ with a sickening certainty as he sank to his knees at Isaac's side. He'd whispered that he loved him, that the next day they would pull a prank on the assholes that had jumped them and laugh.

He'd told Isaac that he was going to be fine as he had stopped breathing.

“I knew that was it. I knew he'd hit it wrong, and I...I lay in the street there with him 'til the cops came.”

Isaac had been dead by the time the police arrived, but Cas can't bring himself to say so.

*

"I was in the hospital for almost a week after. Concussion. His parents tried to keep in touch, but they...we couldn't. I haven't seen them since," Cas says faintly.

It's only then, after Cas has made it clear his story is finished, that Dean speaks. "Is that how you got your scar?"

Cas nods, unconsciously reaching back behind his ear to touch the thick rope of scar tissue. When he finally looks at Dean again, his skin is ashen, his eyes dull.

"Is that why you came to Texas?" Dean asks.

Cas shakes his head. "Not really. Nina just called and got my dad while he was high. He gave me the phone and the rest is history." He smiles almost sadly, and the sight makes Dean want to enfold him in his arms again, but he stays where he is.

"I wondered sometimes if...if _something_ hadn't happened in California, something bad, but I never thought...well, I don't know what I thought. I wish that hadn't happened to you," Dean says, wishing just as fervently that the words were what he needs them to be.

“He didn't deserve to die,” Cas voice is almost a whisper.

“You didn't deserve to lose him,” Dean says as he moves closer to Cas on the bed to take the other boy's hand again. He keeps his grip loose enough that Cas could easily free himself if he wanted to.

“I don't know why it was him. It doesn't make sense,” Cas says.

“I don't think it ever does,” Dean says.

“If it was my dad it would've. But not _him_ ,” Cas' tone is bitter.

“I believe you.”

“There's a lot more you wouldn't if I told you half of the shit I've done since then,” Cas says, discomfort clear on his face.

“It's okay to be fucked up over something like that,” Dean says. Cas turns to stare at him with growing disbelief.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks, withdrawing his hand. “I treated you like shit, I fucking _hit_ you,” Cas says again, as if convinced Dean didn't hear him the first time.

Dean is so surprised by Cas's words that he's silent for a minute or two before answering.

“You knew you were hurting me?” he asks quietly, not sure if he's surprised or not.

“You're the first person I've given a shit about since then; it freaked me the fuck out,” Cas says slowly as he looks down at his hands.

The confession catches Dean off guard.

“You aren't the only one who fucked up. I acted like I didn't give a shit if we kept talking or not. I brought Isaac up. I wanted to see if you cared,” Dean says. He's ashamed to say so, knowing now how destructive the impulse had been.

“You don't get it," Cas sounds gutted as he continues to talk to his own hands. “I _missed_ you—every time I left I missed you, for weeks, and I still—I knew it hurt, but I did it anyway—”

"I thought it was worth it,” Dean interrupts him with an emphatic swipe of his hand, leaving no room for argument. “I knew it wasn't good, Cas, I knew it. I'm not blind. But, I wanted you.”

It hurts to admit, it hurts fucking badly.

“Why?” Cas asks.

“'Cause I've been waiting for school to end to fucking _be_ myself,” Dean says, not realizing until he's spoken the words how true they are. “Around you, I've only ever been... _me_.”

*

“Never be anyone else,” Cas says almost instantly, no second thoughts or hesitation necessary; he means it with everything he has. He wants to reach out and touch Dean, but is afraid to cross the final barrier rapidly dissolving between them.

Cas thinks of the way Dean looks as he pores over a book, the sweet way he curls against Cas as he sleeps soundly, how unassumingly intelligent he is. He hates that almost everyone in Dean's life has unintentionally fed into the stilted way he sees himself, and hates even more that he's done that very thing without meaning to, himself.

 _Never again_ , he thinks with finality as Dean takes a step toward him.

“Who you are is good, better than good,” Cas says.

“You make me feel like I might be, when it's just you and me,” Dean says.

“So do you,” he whispers to Dean, letting the words carry over the shrinking space between them.

He doesn't know if he can say more, and he prays to god that Dean understands.

Dean is moving toward him.

“Cas?” he says gently.

*

“What?” Cas asks.

“Do you want to be with me?”

Cas exhales brokenly, his eyes closing as he nods and lets Dean hug him, his body shuddering. He wraps both arms around Dean, fingertips scrabbling and chin coming to rest again on his shoulder. He's breathing as if he's just run a mile, and Dean holds him tightly, not because he's afraid to let him go, but because he doesn't want to, and it's that fact that makes all the difference.

"I do," Cas breathes into Dean's shoulder until the words run together.

"I do, I do."

*

When Cas returns to school, it is, for lack of a better word, good.

His last week at Kemp Memorial High are taken up by his two remaining exams, low-key and low-budget class parties, G-rated movie days, aimless free-periods spent cramped in the gym or herded outside to the searing silver bleachers, and stolen moments with Dean.

It's dry and temperate outside the whole week, as if the sky has deigned to celebrate with the rest of the student body; the swollen blue and gold maw of the new summer is endless above as he and Dean take short walks around the track or duck down beneath the bleachers to exchange careful touches and devise new ways to sneak Dean out from under Gordon and Michael's watchful gazes. Jo is their self-designated lookout, and has taken it upon herself to help in whatever way she can at Dean's somewhat reluctant behest. Cas appreciates her efforts, and it's because of her that he and Dean are able to meet up outside or in one of the bathrooms more than once throughout the week. Cas thinks she enjoys being in on their secret, if her knowing smiles and enthusiasm for misdirection are any indication.

Their meetings are never particularly long, but the brief interludes make the days pass the two of them quickly by. Cas has a feeling that his ultimate impression of high school in Texas will be of these moments, the passing periods spent in bathroom stalls letting Dean hold him to his chest, the brief kisses stolen in the dark under the bleachers, the sound of Dean whispering a hello or goodbye.

Things are mostly the same between them.

Dean takes Cas home with him every day after school ends, and they watch cartoons and listen to Sam wax poetic about the new procedural cop show he's started watching. Dean rubs Cas's back when he snaps at him, working out the painful, stress-induced knots until he relaxes enough to fall asleep for an hour or two while Dean reads or writes or researches the school he's going to be attending in a few months. Dean has a habit of getting to his knees and taking Cas into his mouth when they're separated from his family by a locked door.

But not everything remains the way it was before.

Dean tucks a finger softly under Cas's chin when he kisses him, now, and smiles when he sees him headed his way. Dean introduces Cas to Sam's best friend Brady as his boyfriend and sends him good morning texts if they don't wake up together. Dean is incredibly affectionate when they spend time together in his room, wrapping his arms around Cas and holding him close as they listen to music or simply lie together, breathing in tandem.

But things are good, both new and old.

*

Dean's had the kit he bought from the music store hidden in the back of his closet for over a month, and it's after Cas has gone on home late Wednesday night that he finally breaks it out and spends the better part of two hours cleaning, buffing and oiling the guitar they found in the garage to a glowing, blonde-wooded perfection.

It looks almost new with his attentions, gleaming happily as Dean stands back to survey it with a critical eye. It's almost two in the morning and he has two more days of school to finish, but he's prepared to stay up even longer if it means a better-looking guitar to give to Cas. However, looking at it now, Dean thinks he's done a good job. He's been keeping the instrument hidden in his closet beside the kit since they found it a couple months back, waiting for the courage he assumes he possesses _somewhere_ to materialize so he can do what he's been unofficially planning since they stumbled upon it.

He's still not sure it has, if he's completely honest with himself.

He and Cas have moved forward, somehow, have beaten the odds stacked against them one by one, have spent months fucking and not talking and wasting time, and Cas still knows more about Dean than almost anyone else. Dean thinks he's starting to get to know Cas in increments, now, in the small moments over the past half-week where the other boy has let his guard down and talked about home, about life before the move to Houston. Dean's gotten closer to Cas in the last three days than he's managed to get the whole time they've known each other, and yet, somehow it's the idea of giving him a guitar that makes Dean rethink everything.

But he _wants_ Cas to have the guitar, wants to see the same soft, faraway look on his face that he'd seen that time in the garage. He wants Cas to have something of his to keep when he leaves for school in a few months, something real and special. Hell, Dean's still not sure some days that they'll even make it that far, but he's never wanted to try at something so much in his life.

So, he gives the guitar to him the following afternoon when they get home from school.

He doesn't make an ordeal of it; he simply waits until Cas makes a trip to the bathroom and grabs the guitar from the closet. He's holding it in his lap where he sits on the bed by the time Cas returns.

"This is for you," he says tensely, standing and holding the guitar out with both hands.

The other boy looks as if he has no idea what to do with the glossy instrument held out before him, staring at it as his lips part in surprise.

"...for me?" he repeats, meeting Dean's eyes.

"Yeah," Dean says, licking his lips nervously. "'S not like anyone else is going to use it, y'know? I figured someone who can play might as well take it."

Cas is quiet for so long that the interaction begins to remind Dean somewhat uncomfortably of Christmas. But to his relief, he eventually takes the guitar from Dean, holding it gingerly against his chest as if it's a child.

A small, disbelieving smile grows slowly on his face as he looks down at it, and Dean greedily drinks in the sight; Cas's smiles are such rare and precious things.

"You fixed it up," Cas says with a quiet reverence as he runs his hand over the smooth wood of the guitar's surface.

Dean grins shyly, "Yeah. I bought a kit from the music store off McHenry. The guy working there, Ash, he spent like an hour tellin' me how to do it and a bunch of other stuff about this kinda guitar. He wants you to come back and show it to him all prettied-up."

Before Dean can process it, Cas has put the guitar down against the wall and is moving in to kiss him, his lips warm and still curved upward in the ghost of a smile.

"Happy graduation," Dean murmurs into the softness of Cas's mouth as the other boy wraps his arms around Dean's shoulders.

*

That night, Cas plays half-remembered melodies and familiar Top 20 refrains until Dean falls asleep beside him in the bed, his forehead warm on Cas's thigh and his side pressed against the wall. His sand-colored hair is mussed and his soft mouth hangs open, and Cas absently plucks a few strings as he looks at him, thinking to himself that there's a song there somewhere if he could only spend more time listening for it. But right now, he's falling asleep, too, and tomorrow is their last day of school.

The thought doesn't make him heavy with dread the way it did a week before; Dean wants to come home and visit him every few weeks; he wants to send him letters and texts and call him every other day, he said so.

Cas reaches out to lightly touch the side of Dean's face not pressed flat against his leg.

He watches as Dean's eyelids flutter open, the green of them mellow under the soft yellow of the lamp on beside the bed.

"I have to get back," he reminds him.

"Lemme drive you, don't want you to carry that all the way back," Dean says groggily as he sits up, already shaking his head and attempting to wake himself up.

 

When Cas falls asleep in his own bed an hour later, he dreams of music and of happy stray dogs.

*

Friday feels somehow unreal as it dawns, sunny and bright like a memory too perfect to be faithful.

Dean dresses in an AC/DC band tee that Michael got him for Christmas the year before last and a worn pair of jeans, prepared to sit around on the bleachers for yet another day. Though Cas isn't with him this morning since he was too tired to make the late-night walk back to the house, Dean feels strangely light, content even as he wishes he wouldn't have to wait until midday to excuse himself to meet up with him.

 _This is it_ , he thinks to himself as he parks in the back lot of the school.

It doesn't feel as if school is truly ending, not really. He imagines it'll take a week or two of summer passing and making college preparations for him to believe it. He smiles faintly at the thought.

Today is an even more unstructured day than the others have been; no one is testing save those retaking or making up exams, and the mood on campus is buoyant, even exuberant, especially so for the seniors Dean recognizes. Everyone seems to be smiling and clapping one another on the back, and the noise in the gym hits Dean like a solid wall as he passes through the double doors and starts to look for Jo, Michael and Gordon in the many groups of students camping out on the bleachers.

After only a minute or so Dean spots his friends near the lowermost left corner of the stacked structure, and begins to make his way over toward them. Jo sees him coming long before he arrives and stands up to rock on the balls of her feet and excitedly beckon him over, her happiness over it being the last day of senior year obviously difficult to contain. Dean smiles at her, finding her energy contagious.

He catches sight of Cas when he's halfway across the gym. He's situated high in the upper levels of the bleachers, his back against the wall as he pretends not to notice Dean looking at him.

Dean sees a small smile cross his lips before, just as quickly, it's gone, and soon he's taking a seat next to Jo. Michael grins, throwing a wad of notebook paper at him as Dean sets his bag down and tries to get comfortable on the textured red plastic of the bleacher seats. Gordon spares Dean a quick glance and a hello as well before returning to the sports magazine he's currently perusing.

For the next five to ten minutes the remainder of the student body files in and the teachers assigned to chaperon them walk up and down the large, crowded space, smiling and greeting the children they know and clearly happy for the year to be ending, themselves.

By the time the tardy bell rings everyone is more or less settled and accounted for, and Dean's able to turn his thoughts to calculating how long he has to wait before he can inconspicuously excuse himself and meet Cas somewhere. The whole week's been more or less built around their short meetings, and he sees no reason why today should be any different.

When he decides it's been long enough (after almost three hours of trying and failing to read the Steven King book open across his lap and restlessly bouncing his leg emphatically enough that Gordon tells him to cut it out, twice) Dean sends Cas a quick text to give him the heads-up and nods to Jo before heading to the nearest restroom.

He doesn't encounter anyone on the short walk there, and with each step toward his destination he can feel tension draining from his body, can already feel his breaths coming easier.

Dean makes it to the bathroom a few minutes before Cas does, and luckily there's no one else to be seen when the other boy arrives, much like the empty hallway just outside.

They don't say anything except hello, and they don't need to. That much hasn't changed.

Dean takes Cas into his arms with a long exhale, his eyes fluttering closed at the feel of the other boy encircled in leather and cotton, soft and warm against him.

He smells like home, like soap and smoke and clean skin, and Dean doesn't keep track of the time as he holds him, and doesn't think he should have to.

*

Cas could stay here forever, fit seamlessly into the edges of Dean's body like a puzzle piece.

He thinks he might want to, though that's something he'll never say.

He breathes slowly, savoring however long they have until they have to break it up and return separately to the gym.

*

"What the fuck?"

Dean hears Michael before he sees him, the words like ice water on his skin. He's still holding Cas, pressing his face into the warm crook of his neck, when he realizes that his best friend is in the room with them.

He extricates himself so quickly he almost stumbles and falls, cursing the fact that they obviously forgot to lock the door behind them. When he turns to face Michael he feels as if his mind goes blank at the enormity of what's happening, his thoughts stuttered and slow as they regard one another.

Michael's blue eyes are wide with surprise and poorly-disguised disgust where he stands near the door, his hands clenched by his sides. He's looking rapidly from Cas to Dean and back again, his mind obviously working overtime to connect the dots Dean knows he's left hanging in the air.

He and Cas hadn't been doing anything more risque than hugging, but if one had to go by Michael's expression they'd probably assume he'd walked in on them fucking.

Dean wonders briefly if he's missed a text from Jo or if Michael simply slipped past his girlfriend when he left to go to the bathroom, but the thought is swept away by the next words out of Michael's mouth .

"What's going on?" he asks in a voice barely more than a breath.

Dean takes a slow, careful step away from Cas to move toward Michael, raising both hands in a strange parody of surrender. He doesn't do it intentionally, but the look on Michael's face pulls the gesture from him as if by compulsion. He feels small, exposed.

"Mike, Cas and me, we're..." Dean's voice leaves him, then.

He doesn't know what to say, what to do. He doesn't know if there is a way out of this.

His friend takes an equal step back when Dean takes one forward, flinching as if Dean is diseased, and it's like a slap to the face. But Dean doesn't let himself feel it or dwell on it, not now, not when perhaps he can still talk to Michael, can still salvage this.

For a wild second he thinks that maybe he can just be honest, maybe he can simply explain that Cas makes him happier than all the girls ever did and ever could, that he knows it seems like a surprise but he's always been like this, that Cas isn't a girl but that it doesn't _matter_ because Dean's never liked them anyway.

Then Michael speaks, and Dean understands that nothing he can say will change his friend's mind.

"Since when are you a homo?"

Cas, still standing silently a few feet behind Dean, makes a noise of anger.

"My whole life," Dean says, the words enormous in his dry throat. He hopes that only he can hear the tremor in his voice.

Michael takes another step back, his shoulder coming into contact with the white, tiled wall. He looks to Cas again, his expression darkening.

Dean's watching one of his best friends take him and their friendship apart in his mind, and it feels like dying. He absently raises his hand to his chest, to the shirt Michael gave him.

"Are you... _together_?" Michael sounds horrified, as if the very idea offends him.

Dean doesn't know why he feels so surprised, why it hurts so badly to watch the thing he was afraid of play out before his eyes.

He _knew_ Michael didn't like the other gay students, it was obvious in the way he treated them every time he was given the chance.

Why should Dean be any different? Why should all the time they've spent together over the years change anything for Michael?

"Yeah."

Dean reaches his hand back to touch Cas, knowing that it's obvious he's shaking. He can feel adrenaline coursing through him at the sight of the unbridled repulsion on Michael's face; it strings him tight and trembling.

To his indescribable relief Cas obliges him, grasping Dean's hand as Michael looks on with irritation.

"Were you ever gonna tell me?" he asks Dean, his eyes locked onto the sight of their hands.

Before he can answer, Cas steps out from behind him, his stance rigid as he advances a step or two toward Michael. He moves in front of Dean protectively, never letting go of his hand.

"He doesn't have to fucking explain anything to _you,_ " the last word is said with with such utter contempt that Michael draws back as if struck, his eyes widening minutely.

Dean is holding Cas's hand so tightly he knows it has to hurt, not knowing what to say as the same guy who gave him Led Zeppelin's discography for his 16th birthday stares at him as if he regrets his very existence.

"Freak."

It's the last thing Michael says before he turns and leaves, the heavy door slamming shut behind him.

Dean feels suddenly numb, as if the crack of wood against metal has knocked him soundless and cavernous.

Cas wraps his arms around him, holds him close, and Dean clings to him.

*

Not long after Cas and Dean exit the bathroom, they both get texts from Jo instructing them to meet her near the front of the gym.

Dean says nothing as they make their way back, obviously distracted. More than once he almost stops completely in his tracks, his thoughts clearly elsewhere, and both times Cas tugs gently on his hand, pulling him toward the gym so they can meet Jo.

Once they've arrived and located her Jo almost immediately drags them over to the nearest teacher and requests that they be allowed to spend the rest of the forty-five minutes of the shortened final day in Mr. Fitzgerald's classroom, and they're given permission to do so without much fuss.

The walk there is tense.

“What happened?” Jo asks lowly as they make their way up the flight of stairs to Mr. Fitzgerald's art room.

Cas watches her face lose color as Dean expressionlessly relays Michael's hateful words and the entirety of the awkward encounter. By the time they actually make it to the classroom Jo looks close to crying.

“He sent me a text that didn't make any sense,” she says as she gestures to the phone in her front pocket. “It just said you were a liar. I didn't know what he meant, and I kinda freaked out and told him I'd forgotten something I had to do for Campbell so I could come find you.”

When they sit down at one of the paint-stained tables Mr. Fitzgerald himself, tall and lanky with an ever-present smile, comes over to tell them hello and to keep it at a reasonable volume-level (an apparently unenforceable request, if the existing noise level in the room is any indication) before making his way back over to the other side of the room, where someone is calling his name.

Jo is clearly conflicted; she alternates between pacing beside the table and sitting down on the edge of her seat as if she can't choose one.

Dean is still expressionless and quiet beside Cas, his green eyes still faraway in the aftermath of his and Michael's encounter.

Jo asks him more than once to repeat the details of the event, each time looking more upset when he tonelessly obliges her.

"This isn't news, Jo. He's never liked the rainbow kids. You know what he did to Charlie Bradbury last year," Dean says tiredly at one point, looking at his hands as he speaks instead of at his best friend.

After that Jo finally sits beside them and stays there for the remainder of the day, all the while staring at her phone, and Cas can tell that Dean's finally driven the reality of the situation home.

Cas knows that Jo's hoping they can just make it through the rest of the short day without encountering a confused, furious Michael.

“I can talk to him later,” she says. “I think I can get him to listen.”

While Cas wants to believe Jo, he doesn't. He himself is all-too familiar with how people tend to react when they learn something they don't like about someone. If he had a dollar for every time someone decided not to be his friend because he liked dick, he'd have been able to pay for food growing up.

But Dean doesn't contradict Jo, and Cas can't bring himself to, either.

They sit together at the table in relative silence for the rest of the hour, and Cas holds Dean's hand beneath it.

 

It's as the three of them attempt to make their way to the Impala after the somewhat anticlimactic final bell of the school year that Cas's hunch is proven right, and they're accosted by none other than Jo's boyfriend.

Cas feels his stomach twist unpleasantly as they all spot Michael at the same time and let out a collective exhale at the sight of him. His face is wholly unpleasant to look at right now, his usually delicate and handsome features stretched taut over the bones of his skull. He's dragging a confused-looking Gordon in his wake, and the other boy is clearly clueless as to why his friend is so determined to manhandle him across the schoolyard.

"What's goin' on? Can somebody tell me what the fuck's happening?" Gordon asks as they come together not far from the back parking lot.

He wrenches his wrist from Michael's grip, his expectant gaze falling first on Jo and then Dean. When he notices Cas standing beside them, his obvious bewilderment only grows. "The fuck is _he_ doing here—"

"You tell him what you told me," Michael says quietly to Dean as he shoves Gordon between them like some sort of shield. Jo lets out an audible gasp at the harshness of the gesture, bracing Gordon with one arm so that he doesn't trip and fall with the force of Michael's thrust.

Michael doesn't look angry now, only cold, and Cas finds that somehow, that's worse.

"Dean? What's he talking about?" Gordon asks uneasily.

"You don't have to say anything, Dean," Jo says as she shoots a look of alarm at Michael.

Dean holds up a hand as if to calm everyone, his face drawn with emotion he's not letting himself express; Cas knows well enough by now what that looks like.

"It's fine, Jo. He's gonna find out, anyway...I'm gay, Gordon," Dean says in a voice small and flat.

Michael looks vaguely satisfied at Dean's admission, as if casting moral judgment and finding the confession suitable, but that's all Cas can see in his wintry eyes besides a dull animosity.

Gordon's mouth falls open in surprise, and Cas can't look away.

He's never given a shit who decides to leave because of his orientation, has even held the door for them to ease their passage, metaphorically and literally.

But, Dean...Dean's built cities and worlds on people not solid enough to withstand so much as a breeze, and seeing them crumble in front of him now feels like watching something die.

He wants to stop everything, wants to send Michael and Gordon away and tell Dean that he's too good for these fucking people.

But it's not his place to stop what's happening here.

"What?" Gordon asks in disbelief.

"You heard me," Dean says simply.

"I—you—since when?" Gordon splutters.

"Always," Dean answers, his response echoing the one he gave Michael not three hours earlier.

"Man, that doesn't make any sense," Gordon says confusedly. "You always—you just don't—I don't believe you. Is this some joke y'all are playin' on me?" he asks, looking from Dean to Cas to Jo and then back to Michael.

"If you'd seen what I did, you'd know it wasn't a joke," Michael says coolly.

It's then that Jo interjects again, "What's _wrong_ with you, Mikey?"

" _I'm_ the wrong one here?" Michael asks in genuine disbelief.

"Dean's my best friend, and he was yours too this morning. Stop talking to him like that," Jo snaps, pain clear on her face as she pokes a finger into Michael's chest, her blonde hair a bright, reflective gold in the fierce afternoon sunlight.

Cas can tell that even though they warned her, she wasn't expecting Michael to react the way he is. As much as she must have taken pleasure in helping them maintain the secrecy of their situation, she's obviously only realizing now that Dean's fears were well-founded.

"You're on _his_ side?" Michael asks Jo, batting her hand away.

"There _are_ no sides. You're one of my best friends, too. Come on, just let this go," Jo says, a note of supplication seeping into her voice. She takes a step closer to Michael, as if by proximity she can make him listen to her.

"What the fuck, Joanna? Just let it go? Do you not _get_ it?" Michael says, his tone turning defensive and grating as he uses his girlfriend's full name. He's looking at her as if he doesn't know her, and the expression on Jo's face is identical.

"Don't talk to her like that," Dean admonishes, naturally coming to Jo's defense.

“Stay the fuck out of this,” Michael hisses at Dean. “I was talking to her, not—”

"There's nothing for him to stay out of," Jo's voice is high, clear, and final. Michael looks back at her, clearly not expecting what she's said.

"I thought you were better than this, Michael."

A host of emotions cross Michael's face at Jo's put-down; Cas watches as shock, anguish, confusion and resentment flit across his features. But what settles there at last, what puts down roots and grows, is anger.

He scoffs in Jo's direction, his mouth working silently as he searches for what he wants to say.

"Did you know?" he asks at last.

Jo nods.

"Fuck you," he says lowly before turning his back on her.

Jo's eyes are shining with tears, and Cas reaches for her the same time that Dean does.

They stand on either side of her as Michael walks away.

Gordon shrugs at them as if in apology before turning and following Michael somewhat guiltily, practically sprinting to catch up with the other boy's long strides.

Neither of them spare a backward glance, not even when Jo rips Michael's class ring from where it hangs on a chain around her neck and throws it at his back. It briefly makes contact before bouncing off of him and falling down onto the ground, the new silver of it bright in the sun.

There are students grouped around them staring openly, now, clearly wondering what's just transpired. Cas doesn't recognize any of them, but he can tell that they all know Jo and Dean, and he can hear whispered words hidden behind hands and cellphones surrounding them as they stand there.

Cas is startled when Dean reaches around and takes his hand where it rests across the small of Jo's back, his fingers trembling.

If he cares that everyone he's ever known can see him do so, he doesn't comment on it.

They aren't stopped again as they walk to the Impala that way, Jo fighting back tears between them while Cas and Dean form a barrier at her back, leading her through the throng of people and the dozens of curious glances thrown their way.

But not one person says a word, and with that, high school is finished.

*

After they drop Jo off Dean and Cas come home to an empty house; Mary and John are out to dinner together for some long-overdue catch-up time, and Sam is at Brady's celebrating the end of the school year.

Dean had expected to be happy today. He'd expected to be in a good mood, triumphant, maybe even euphoric. He'd expected to feel relieved and accomplished with high school finished. But all he feels right now is a numb sort of sorrow.

He wonders if he should be grateful that, for better or worse, Gordon and Michael know, but he doesn't.

He knows he's being too quiet, that he's usually the one to make conversation since Cas is so reticent, but he can't find the energy to say anything tonight. He wants to sleep, wants to take a shower and sit under the spray until it cools, wants to take Cas's hand and hold it the way he did in the classroom earlier.

But what he does is set his things down next to the bed and situate himself on its end, letting his head fall forward onto his chest.

When Cas lightly presses Dean down onto his back before climbing over his body to kiss him, he closes his eyes as and lets him take control.

Cas slips his hands under the hem of Dean's shirt, touching him with feather-light fingertips. Dean reaches out and holds Cas to his chest, feeling his eyes burn and afraid to open them.

Cas rolls Dean's nipple between his fingers and swallows the gasp he makes. He moves his hips against Dean's rhythmically, fucking his mouth with his tongue in tandem with the movements.

When Cas is inside him less than twenty minutes later, it's slow, smooth.

He thrusts into Dean gently from behind, dropping kisses onto the damp nape of his neck. Dean grabs fistfuls of the comforter underneath them, shoving his face into the flattened pillow to muffle the pitiful sounds he makes with every press of Cas into him.

It's the first time they've fucked in almost two weeks, and Dean needs it more tonight than he did then.

They're covered in sweat and pressed together so tightly Dean doesn't know where his body ends and Cas' begins.

“You're good, you're good,” Cas whispers into Dean's ear as he fills him slowly, achingly. It should be merely sexual, just dirty talk, but it isn't for Dean.

“Oh, Jesus,” he breathes, Cas's words like a wound and its succor all at once.

Cas has his hands around Dean's wrists where he's got a hold of the sheets, and Dean is feeling far too much right now to do anything besides lie there and take it the way Cas wants to give it to him, and he does.

“You're so good,” Cas says again as he kisses the shell of Dean's ear and rocks into him again and again. He doesn't hurry, he doesn't press harder than he needs to to get inside, he only keeps the same, steady pace.

Dean moans weakly, something closing in his throat as he comes on Cas's cock, nothing on his own save for the friction of the damp sheets beneath him and the smoothness of his belly above.

Cas comes quickly after, exhaling raggedly as he carefully pulls out.

“Fuck,” Dean gasps, pretending there isn't any wetness in his eyes as he quickly wipes them on the pillow.

If Cas notices, he doesn't say anything. He only presses himself to Dean's back, one arm draped over his shoulder as he rolls them both onto their sides.  
“I'm sorry,” Cas murmurs, and Dean knows he's talking about what transpired earlier.

Dean shakes his head, “Don't be.”

He doesn't mean it now, but he thinks he will in time.

*

His and Dean's class graduation ceremony is two days later, and Cas spends far longer than he should looking at himself in the cheap, full-length mirror they've tacked onto one of the back walls in the partitioned area the graduating seniors have been corralled into.

It doesn't look like him in the bright red cap and gown, he thinks, not with his hair flattened and gelled and a borrowed button-down from Dean peaking out from under the collar of his robes.

He never quite thought he would make it this far. If he's honest, he's always assumed he'd have gotten himself killed long before he managed to walk the stage and take his diploma.

Yet, here he is.

Dean and Jo have already gone back to line up with everyone else, and Cas needs to do the same. He knows logically that he can't stand here forever staring at himself. The teachers have started picking up the strays around him, ordering them to their assigned places in the huge line of people winding back into the locker rooms, and Cas can tell he doesn't have long before he, too, is made to move whether he wants to or not.

How like life, he thinks.

He can't seem to force his feet to do as he needs them to. He feels fixed to the spot and it seems laughable that _he_ of all people is standing here at all, in graduation garb straightening the sleeves of his borrowed shirt as he looks past himself in the mirror to the people moving past him in the background, walking without hang-ups. The seconds tick by, and he wishes with a sharp pain that Isaac were here dressed in graduation garb, his life still a story with only a beginning.

Cas feels his pocket vibrate and reaches down to retrieve his phone, seeing a text from Dean that says only _'break a leg <3'_.

Clutching the phone in his hand, Cas finally makes himself move to take his place in line, standing behind people he's never spoken to and never will. He pictures Isaac, standing beside him, a joyful smile on his face. He looks the way he did in Santa Cruz, sun-kissed and happy and eternally sixteen.

 _“Te amo, siempre y en el presente,”_ Cas whispers to the boy that isn't, not anymore, closing his eyes as outside the partition he hears the sound of hundreds of family members and friends shifting in their folding chairs, their tittering laughter and blended breaths.

_“Te amo, te amo, te amo.”_

He imagines the words making their way to Dean, the boy that _is_ , where he stands farther back in the line, soft and saffron yellow and fragrant in the warm air.

When Cas opens his eyes again, it's to the band beginning to play as the ceremony starts.

*

The day after he, Cas and Jo walk the stage, Dean decides it's time to tell his father about his acceptance to not one, but three universities, and to inform him that he's chosen the University of North Texas in Denton to pursue a degree in English. He's been rehearsing his delivery in his mind for the better part of the entire day, and he still isn't able to calmly explain all of this so much as running all of the words together in one long, trembling breath.

“It's mostly paid for, too, 'cause of the football. You won't have to help much, maybe not at all,” Dean says with a strained smile.

Dinner's just ended and John is still sitting at the dining room table. Mary's just cleared everyone's plates, and Dean can hear the sound of her running warm water over them for a soak in the kitchen.

He's pulled out the envelopes to show his father as if he needs to cite his sources, placing them in front of him on the table like a spread of cards.

John's half-full glass of wine is frozen in the air as he stares down at the letters, his eyebrows raised slightly.

Apparently deeming the dishes fine for now, Mary returns from the kitchen to take a seat next to her husband again a few seconds later, smiling expectantly at John and putting a hand gently on top of his as she and Dean wait for the eldest Winchester's response.

It was Mary who suggested Dean break the news immediately after dinner and drinks like this, and he hopes her idea ends up being the right one.

Sam's in the bathroom right this second, and Dean wishes his brother would hurry up and come back to act as a buffer in case things turn awkward. He can't tell yet if this conversation is going to go surprisingly well or completely up in flames; it all hinges on John's initial response.

“You...you applied to all these schools?” John asks him. “I thought it was just the one.”

Dean shakes his head, “Nah, Pops. All of 'em. I applied to four, actually, but the fourth turned me down. Not enough extracurriculars.” He smiles ruefully at that.

“What do you want to do with an English degree?” John asks before taking a cautious sip of his wine, his salt-and-pepper beard twitching with the movement.

“I...I want to teach,” Dean says. He holds his breath without meaning to after he's spoken, avoiding his father's eyes.

“Like, teach high schoolers?” John asks, genuine curiosity clear on his face. “Would you be an English teacher, then, I guess?”

Dean nods. “Yeah, Dad. I want to be useful.”

What he doesn't tell his father is that he wants to spend the rest of his life helping clueless teenagers avoid the painful pitfalls he himself fell into, that he wants to tell them to be themselves and cheer them on when they do. He wants to help students like Cas, kids drowning in oceans of rage and sorrow and shit that no one else seems able to see, or perhaps simply don't give enough of a damn to. He wants to care for those who have no one else to do so, _especially_ those who make it difficult.

He wants a life with a purpose.

“I didn't know you actually _wanted_ to go to school,” John says haltingly, something like guilt in the edges of his voice. He's picking at a loose thread in the blue linen table cloth, his broad hands restless.

“Do you think I should?” Dean asks reflexively, knowing distantly what a bad idea it is but unable to suppress the knee-jerk reaction to seek John's approval.

His father sits back in his chair and exhales slowly, heavily, one of his hands still circling the stem of his wine glass. “Well, it's better'n what I could offer you at the company right now,” he says with a measure of self-deprecation.

“If I didn't want to teach, working with you would be my first choice, Dad,” Dean says, surprised to find that the words are true.

“This isn't...this isn't because of me, is it?” John asks, setting his wine glass down now and turning to face Dean fully for the first time since dinner was served an hour ago.

Dean is so caught off-guard by the question that he's unable to answer for a minute or so, staring mutely at his father. Beside John, Mary is quietly watching them both, obviously somewhat on-edge even though her face gives nothing away.

It's at this moment that Sam chooses to emerge from the hall bathroom, wiping his hands on his shirt as he re-enters the dining room to see his family staring silently at one another.  
“What?” Dean asks John at last, ignoring his brother's questioning look.

“I...I know we don't see eye-to-eye on some things,” John says somewhat gruffly, taking a large swig of his Chianti.

Dean wonders if that's his father's way of referencing his and Cas's relationship, the amount of time they spend together making how they feel toward one another obvious even if their outward actions don't. He doesn't know, but he doesn't think now is the time to ask.

“That's fine, Dad,” Dean says softly.

“I wish I'd have tried harder to,” John says, once again not looking at his son directly as he finishes off his glass. “That'll be more difficult, now. Thought I had more time.”

Dean feels shock as he realizes that his father was genuinely looking forward to them working together simply for the opportunity to _get to know him_.

“We'll be okay, Dad,” he says, hoping that John understands.

“But, I can tell this is what you're leaning toward, and if this is what you want, do it. You got in, what else do you need?” John acts as if Dean hasn't responded.

Dean isn't sure what to say to that, and is quiet for a long time before he answers his father, treating his question as non-rhetorical.

“I need to know that you think I can do it,” he says with a mouth suddenly dry.

“If you got _into_ all these schools, I think you can sure as hell graduate from one,” John says almost immediately, his logic so self-evident and so typically _John Winchester_ that Dean can't help but huff a small, astonished laugh.

“I think I can, too, Dad.”

He means it.

*

“Cas?” Dean says unexpectedly from across the room.

It's been four days since graduation, Cas starts work at the construction company in two more, and he's reading the second Harry Potter book while sprawled out on Dean's bed. Dean himself is sitting at his desk, reading news articles on his computer.

Cas looks up at the sound of his name, putting a finger down on the last word he read to keep his place.

“If you don't want to answer, you don't have to, but, I've been wondering...did you ever actually _try_ and talk to Isaac's family after? More than the one time, I mean?” Dean asks, clearly trying to word the inquiry as delicately as he can. He's turned his chair all the way around so as to fully face the bed, and he's got a streak of pen ink on one cheek. Cas finds himself staring at the thin, blue line.

“You hear me?” Dean asks him gently after a few minutes have passed and Cas's hasn't responded.

Cas closes the book slowly, looking at Dean and the Bic horizon line on his face.

He heard him just fine, and knows there isn't a real reason to pretend he hasn't.

“Why?” he asks at last.

“I just...I've been thinking about it,” Dean says with a shrug.

Cas shakes his head with a sigh, turning deliberately onto his side so that he's facing the wall instead of Dean, as if that will make it hurt less to talk about this.

“They were angry. They asked me why I hadn't kept him safe. I asked myself the same thing, so many times.”

“That was right after, wasn't it? When you were still in the hospital?” Dean asks, and from the way he sounds alone Cas can picture what he's doing right now; he's probably got his hands clasped uncomfortably in his lap, one of his socked feet bouncing tensely.

Cas nods, making the gesture noticeable enough that he knows Dean can see it.

“They might have just been in shock, Cas. People say things they don't mean all the time when they're grieving,” Dean says. Cas can hear him get up from his chair and begin to pace.

“They had a right to feel that way, Dean,” Cas says matter-of-factly to the wall. “They probably still do, and I can't blame them.”

“Have you ever thought about...trying to get into contact with them again?” Dean ventures.

Cas shakes his head again, “There's no way they have the same number or address now.”

Though he isn't actually sure if that's true. Isaac's family didn't have much in the way of money or resources, moving might not have been something they were able to afford, not unless either of them suddenly came into money or were promoted.

“You know that for sure?” Dean asks, and he does so gently enough that Cas eventually has to concede that no, he doesn't.

“I think...maybe you should try. I just...I feel like it eats at you, like you never got to feel okay about them,” Dean says timidly.

He's painfully correct in his assessment, but Cas doesn't admit as much.

A few minutes later, Cas slowly rolls back over onto his stomach, opening the book again and pretending that Dean hasn't said anything. The other boy doesn't push it.

 

Cas doesn't dial the memorized house number of the Martinez family until four additional days have passed, and when he does he's covered with dried sweat and dirt from his first real day on-site.

He's not at all expecting to hear Maria Martinez's voice on the other end of the line.

Dean's gone to the bathroom, and Cas is alone in his room. Downstairs he can hear the faint sounds of Sam and Mary laughing about something, the TV on and blending their words and giggles together in an ambient hum.

Cas is frozen where he sits on the edge of the bed, filthy and aching with his cellphone clenched so tightly in his hand that he hopes he isn't damaging it.

 _“Hello, hola?”_ Maria is saying, obviously wondering if anyone is there at all.

“ _Hola, Senora Martinez. Soy yo_...Cas,” Cas says slowly, the Spanish coming to him more easily than he thought it would after so long away from her and her family.

_“Castiel? Güerito? Te hemos extra_ _ñ_ _ado, te fuiste?”_ she asks in surprise, her voice warm and somewhat urgent, as if she's afraid he'll hang up.

“ _Si_ ,” is all Cas manages before he begins to cry, and it's then that Dean returns from the restroom and puts his arms around him, holding Cas's head to his chest as he speaks to Isaac's mother in Spanglish and cries until he can't breathe.

*

The second time that Cas asks Dean to fuck him, it's almost a week later and seven thirty in the morning. The early-morning light filtering in through the window is still cool and sleepy, a faded pink and yellow and white, and Cas is warm on top of Dean as he straddles him. Their breaths mingle, almost as quiet as the rustle of the sheets that still halfway cover them.

Around them, the house sleeps, and they kiss each other to muffle the sounds they make.

Cas trembles as he wets a finger on his tongue and slips it in and out of himself. He gasps softly as Dean reaches down to cup his cock.

Dean wants to touch Cas everywhere that he can reach, wants to pull him as close as he can for as long as he can. He strokes his free hand up and down Cas's sides, his belly, the firm curves of his pectoral muscles, the bud of a nipple. He revels in the feeling of Cas's muscles jerking under his hands as the other boy stretches himself slowly, almost languidly, now up to two fingers.

He's so warm, his skin so soft.

When Cas grabs the lube from the bedside table and wets the juncture between his thighs with it before sliding down slowly onto Dean, he almost comes then. He just barely reigns in his body's response at the tight heat surrounding him.

Cas is like a different person on top, Dean learns quickly.

His body begins to flush with the exertion of riding Dean's cock, a soft pink sheen blooming on his pale, morning skin as he reaches down to brace himself on Dean's shoulders.

Cas's lips part, his eyes close.

“Say my name,” he murmurs to Dean as he fills himself with his cock.

“Cas, is this okay?” Dean asks quietly.

“Again,” Cas ignores the question.

“Cas,” Dean whispers, and the other boy shudders.

“Dean,” he murmurs as he tilts his head back, the word almost lost in the quiet hum of the watered-down light.

“Cas,” Dean thumbs the outline of one of his defined hipbones.

“Oh, fuck,” Cas moans softly as Dean tentatively wraps a hand around his cock again.

“Baby,” Dean exhales. It's the first time he's called Cas that, and the word feels as if it's pulled from his lips.

He isn't sure if it's the endearment or his hand on Cas's dick that makes him orgasm, but the feel of his body clenching around Dean sends him over the edge less than a minute after.

Cas's come is still wet on Dean's belly and chest as he lifts himself off of his softening cock.

“Thank you,” Cas says as they lie together.

Dean gets the feeling he isn't only referring to the sex, but he doesn't ask.

If there's one thing he's learned, it's that Cas only ever says what he wants to.

*

Mary insists on throwing Dean, Jo and Cas a graduation party a few days later, going so far as to schedule it on one of Cas's off-days to ensure his attendance.

Jo, for her part, immediately takes to the idea and insists on coming over the day before to festoon the Winchester's backyard with pretty, colored tea lights and white string-lights that she drapes over the fence and bushes. She even goes so far as to buy a white and red-checked cloth for the picnic table and graduation-themed paper plates, napkins and plastic cups for the occasion.

Cas hasn't said so and isn't planning on it, but the yard looks like a fairy land once the sun sets, the lights making the small, fenced-in space feel dreamlike.

He spends almost an hour the night before the party sitting on the back porch in the midst of the decorations and soft, colored light, silently basking in the unexpected beauty of it.

 

When the day of the party dawns he, Dean and Jo find themselves in the kitchen helping Mary prepare ominously-sized portions of macaroni salad and coleslaw and pinto beans, while outside Sam and John have been put in charge of grilling hot dogs and hamburger patties.

Ellen and Bill Harvelle are wandering from the backyard to the kitchen and back again, helping wherever an extra hand or faithful taste-tester is needed, and Nina, though it's obvious she feels out of place in the lipstick she never wears and the brand-new cargo shorts Cas has never seen her in, is doing her best not to get in the way. More than once, Cas sees Mary make a point to go over and speak to his aunt, offering her sangria or sweet tea and assuring her that as a guest she has no obligation to do anything but enjoy herself.

Cas can tell that his aunt isn't convinced, but she seems content enough, if the large cup of homemade sangria in her hand and the shy smile on her face is anything to go by.

Dean, Cas learns quickly, is apparently adept at all things side-dish-related, and Mary asks him more than once what something is missing, bringing him a spoonful of this or that to try and waiting patiently for him to return with a verdict, and his suggestions inevitably produce delicious results.

“What?” Dean says in response to Cas's look of surprise after he watches him gather and combine all of the ingredients for German potato salad in the correct quantities from memory. “I'm a Texas boy.”

“I can't believe I thought you were cool,” Cas says in response.

“Was that a joke?” Dean asks with a wink.

Cas can tell that, though Dean puts on a good face for the party, he's distracted at times, his eyes turning sad only seconds after he laughs or smiles.

He doesn't bring it up, but he touches him more often than he usually does, offering support the only way he currently can.

*

It feels strange, to have a party at the house at which Michael and Gordon aren't present.

Dean almost remarks on it to Jo once or twice throughout the otherwise happy evening, but stops himself both times. He knows she's just as hurt as he is, if not more. Michael had been Dean's best friend, but he'd been Jo's close friend and _boyfriend_.

Dean regrets egging them on, now, regrets playing matchmaker when he found out they were crushing on one another months before. He knows that he couldn't have predicted the eventual outcome, but it still eats at him if he allows himself to think on it for too long.

Jo's told him since the debacle on their last day of school that she blames only Michael and Gordon, not him or Cas, and for her words he's grateful.

But that doesn't make any of it hurt any less.

It's been over two weeks since he and Jo have spoken to either of their former friends, and Dean imagines that he may never get do so again since he's leaving in a little over two months.

Bill and Ellen are undoubtedly aware of the circumstances that led to Jo and Michael's breakup and the former's conspicuous absence at this informal graduation celebration, but they don't speak to Dean any differently than they always have, and Ellen goes so far as to pull a surprised Cas into a brisk hug when she's introduced to him, slapping him bracingly on the back with a knowing look cast in Dean's direction, and he about passes out with relief at the knowledge that he isn't going to lose them, too.

Nina smiles sweetly at Dean when she sees him, and gives him a cherry-red peck on the cheek as she congratulates him on graduating and his acceptance to UNT.

So, even though Dean feels a damp sort of sadness at the absence of his friends, Cas is with him easing the hurt, taking his hand when no one is around, giving him a rare smile when his family isn't looking, and Jo has always stood by his side and still is now, and somewhere behind him he can hear Sam and John laughing, and the sky is clear and blue and the grass is perfectly green under his bare feet.

Today, it is enough.

*

Less than an hour later all the food is ready and in serving platters or piled on paper plates near the grill, and almost everyone else has migrated to the backyard to load their plates with comfort food save for Cas and Mary.

It's quiet where they stand adjacent one another in the kitchen; Mary's making another batch of strong sangria, and Cas is washing his hands of mayonnaise and egg yolk from helping with the potato salad.

Cas knows what Dean's mother is about to say before she actually does.

“I love my son. Please don't make me worry about you hurting him again,” she says it softly, her blonde hair framing her pretty face as she leans against the door frame and looks at him, pitcher in hand. Her blue eyes are almost piercing in the dregs of reflected sunlight.

“I couldn't,” Cas says simply, meaning it with every cell in his body.

He takes Mary's free hand when she offers it to him, and they walk out into the yard together like that, her palm soft and cool against his.

Dean smiles at Cas as he catches sight of him, and Cas smiles back.

 

After Ellen, Bill and Nina leave for home and Mary and John have gone upstairs, Cas, Dean, Sam and Jo sit outside together on the back porch, watching the stars blink and sparkle to life in the sky and the darkness beyond settle in like a soft, sapphire mantle.

It is only the four of them, and they are silent.

Cas feels Dean hook an arm around his shoulders and chances a look over at him.

He's taken completely aback for a second when he sees a lady bug perched somewhat precariously on the tip of Dean's freckled nose. Her diaphanous black wings are just barely poking out from beneath her bright red shell, as if she's just landed there.

Cas reaches out slowly, gently brushing her off of Dean's face and into the flat palm of his hand, staring at the small insect under the starlight for a moment before letting her go.

He swallows around a lump in his throat, watching the tiny dot of the ladybug as long as he can before he loses her to the navy blue of the night encompassing them.

_Viaja con cuidado._

Cas leans forward and presses a light kiss to Dean's cheek when the other boy gives him a soft, knowing smile, his green eyes radiant even now, as darkness surrounds them and there is so little light to be found.

*

 

Dean listens when Cas writes little half-songs, strumming them out on the guitar after he gets home from the job site where he's been thinking of them all day. Sometimes, he arrives as late or two or three in the morning, and Dean falls asleep more often than he would like while waiting for him to come back.

John is content to believe that Cas's reasons for staying over so often are because the stop where Cas catches the bus to head to work is closer to the Winchester's than his place, and no one has yet challenged that assumption.

 

*

 

When Cas gets his first paycheck, he buys Nina three housedresses in colors she doesn't have yet, and she hugs him until he has to somewhat awkwardly ask her to let him go.

 

*

 

Dean takes Sam to the park to play catch once a week or more when he has the time, soaking up as much time with his brother as he can before September rolls around. Sam invites John along sometimes, and they find that they work well together as a trio.

Who would've thought?

 

*

 

Cas takes to writing letters to Maria and Ramon Martinez every few weeks, and they answer without fail. They talk about work and family, and they send Cas pictures of the altar they made for Isaac the previous year for Dia de los Muertos and the flowers they leave at his grave almost monthly, and he hangs the photographs up beside his bed.

He saves their letters in the same boxes that Isaac's still occupy, and it doesn't make it okay, but it makes it easier.

 

*

 

Dean traces the Spanish tattoo on Cas's back when the other boy sleeps in his arms, and he thinks he's been at peace with it longer than he realizes when it doesn't hurt him to do so.

 

*

 

Cas steals Dean a rose from the neighbor's garden and leaves it on his dresser before he leaves for work one morning, hoping that the flower will bring a smile to Dean's face as he begins the arduous task of packing his things for the move to Denton in a week.

 

*

 

Dean tells Cas he loves him at three in the morning, two days before he leaves for school, and Cas kisses him in response, stealing the breath from his lungs with the ardor of the gesture.

He doesn't say it back, but Dean doesn't mind.

 

*

 

Cas performs a song he's been working on for weeks for Dean the night before he heads to UNT, and he hopes that it says what he is still afraid to.

 

*

 

When Dean arrives on UNT's campus and begins to move his things into his dorm room at the end of August, he finds a small, unfamiliar box stored with his things.

After opening it out of curiosity, he understands that Cas must have snuck the thing into his car not long before he left the house several hours earlier.

The box contains three pilfered candy bars, half a dozen properly-purchased books (complete with receipts), and a small, framed picture of himself and Cas together. He recognizes the image as one his mother took of them a month or so ago; in it, they're sitting on the couch and in the midst of laughing, their eyes closed as they clutch at each other and gasp for breath.

There's a note taped to the back of it.

It doesn't say much, but it says enough.

 

 _'_ _Thank you for loving me.'_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spanish translations in order as they appear:  
> "I love you, forever and for now."  
> "I love you."  
> "Hello, it's me, Cas."  
> 'Guerito' is kind of like "little white boy", it's a diminutive or nickname.  
> "We missed you, did you move?"  
> "Fly safely."


	20. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow.  
> Remember that one time I wanted to write some porn a year ago?  
> Lol, as we can see, that clearly didn't work out the way I planned, but I don't regret a thing. This story has been a challenge and joy to write, and I am so grateful to everyone who waited for my updates. Thank you so very much <3  
> Additional thanks to my friends [JhanaMay](http://archiveofourown.org/users/JhanaMay/pseuds/JhanaMay), [WinchestersRaven](http://archiveofourown.org/users/WinchestersRaven/pseuds/WinchestersRaven), [Feathers7501](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Feathers7501/pseuds/Feathers7501), and my girlfriend, Dylan, for talking to me, beta-reading, and generally encouraging me and helping me when I doubted myself and needed additional perspective.
> 
> I will now be returning to my other WIP, [Rhapsodic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2660231/chapters/5945528), and finishing that up as well!  
> I hope you choose to read that one, too.  
> Thank you, again, truly.

_Six Months Later_

Dean's eyes ache as he pores over the last page of the short story collection once more, attempting to take in as much as he can even as he fades in and out of somnolence.

It's midday on a Thursday, and Dean knows rationally that he'll need to take a study break soon if he intends to make any more progress on this content analysis. He's been at it for hours and he's reaching his breaking point, but he hasn't been able to bring himself to do so yet.

When his cell phone starts to ring on the desk beside him he glances at the screen, smiling to himself as he notices that it's Cas calling.

"Hello?" he greets as he closes the book and pushes it to the side, grateful for an excuse to put it away for now.

" _Hey_ ," Cas says, a smile obvious in his voice.

"How are you?" Dean asks, standing and stretching before the short desk in his dorm room. His roommate, Gad, is currently attending a chemistry lab and won't be back for another hour, and he has the small room to himself. He's taken full advantage of this by putting on some Led Zeppelin and taking off his shirt.

" _Fine. Bored. You?_ " Cas replies.

"'m okay. Sick of Wilkie Collins already," Dean jokes. He starts when he hears a knock on his door. "Gimme one sec, Cas, there's someone knockin'," he says as he crosses the room to answer it.

When he comes face-to-face with none other than Cas himself, an old, army-green duffel slung over his shoulder and a somewhat shy smile on his face, Dean laughs in surprise and flings his arms around his boyfriend, reveling in the warmth of his body and the smoothness of his skin.

"Hello, Dean,” Cas says with a smile when he pulls away.

　

The End

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment telling me how you liked/disliked the ending :) it really makes it all worthwhile to hear from y'all.


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